


Into the Woods

by manipulant



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, Young Veins
Genre: Blindness, Broken Bones, Dragons, Dudes in dresses, Infidelity, M/M, Revisionist Fairy Tale, Suspense, brambles, face-punching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 108,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manipulant/pseuds/manipulant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>a fairytale AU</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

  


_  
**Once upon a time**  
_  


 

They're in a moderately large city somewhere on the East Coast, but fucked if Brendon can remember which one it is, outside of "one of the ones that's big enough for an Apple store but not big enough for an IKEA." He's deep enough into the tour to have given up on remembering insignificant details, like what day of the week it is and where he is and, occasionally, whether or not he's wearing pants.

Brendon shivers and curls his fingers tighter around the styrofoam coffee cup in his hand, and waits for Spencer to catch up to where he's waiting at the crosswalk. "Thanks for waiting, dickbag," Spencer grumbles as he shuffles up with his own cup, hunching down into the collar of his coat a little against the cold.

"Fuck you," Brendon replies, amiably enough. "I shouldn't have to stand around like a tool in a coffee shop just because you have to try every single thing at their condiment bar."

"They had creme brulee creamer stuff," Spencer says primly, taking a sip from his cup.

"Your _face_ has creme brulee," Brendon mutters automatically. He frowns at Spencer's raised eyebrow, and quickly follows up with, "in that I want to take a blowtorch to it."

Spencer tilts his head, and grabs Brendon's elbow to tug him across the street as the light changes. "Yeah," he says, when they're safe on the other side, "I'm gonna give you a 5.3 for the clumsy dismount. Really not your best performance."

"But I stuck the landing," Brendon points out. "And c'mon, creativity. Blowtorch to the face? Come _on_."

"I did take that into consideration."

Brendon glances over to scowl at Spencer, who's looking directly at a woman trying to hail a taxi while balancing a tray of coffee cups, three shopping bags, a purse, and a screaming two-year-old. "Fucking Russian judge," he grumbles underneath his breath, not even bothering to protest when Spencer heads that way.

He follows behind dutifully, and automatically takes Spencer's coffee cup when Spencer passes it back to him a few seconds later. Brendon sighs, resigned, and makes faces at the kid to distract him while Spencer takes the woman's cups and bags and flags down a cab.

The kid's name is Jacob, and his mother is pink with delight by the time everything's in the cab with her. Brendon's feeling a little bit better about the world (for a two-year-old, Jacob's pretty cool - he stopped and clapped his hands and crowed when Brendon held his baby fist and pretended to punch himself with it), and then the mom - when she's done thanking Spence for, like, the fifteenth time - looks over at Brendon from inside of the taxi, and _winks_ at him.

"Hang onto this one," she advises Brendon, grinning at him as Brendon starts to _blush_. And then she gives him an _A-OK_ sign as the taxi pulls off.

Brendon really doesn't know what to do with that except keep blushing like an idiot. "Take your fucking coffee, Lancelot," Brendon grumbles, wrongfooted by the lady's reaction and how hot his face has gone. He rolls his eyes, but can't help snorting a little as Spence makes grabby hands and takes his coffee back.

"I _missed_ you," Spencer tells the cup tenderly, taking a long, slurping sip from the top as they start back down the street again. "I don't ever want us to be apart again."

"Lies," Brendon says, grabbing for Spencer's elbow to haul him down a crosswalk, just in time before the traffic starts going. "I've seen the way you treat girls like her. Use 'em up til they're empty, and then just throw them away."

"What we have is special," Spencer says loftily, holding the cup to his chest protectively. "I'm sorry you can't see that."

Brendon sighs, and steers Spencer around a group of tourists. "Yeah, okay. What I _can_ see is that we have an hour and a half, max, to find a place for you to buy your very special shoes and get back to the venue before Zack straight-up murders us. So stop molesting your coffee and focus on _walking_ , Smith. And finding you some shoes."

Spencer sighs wearily. "Fine," he drawls, but he does take another prolonged slurp of his coffee, smirking at Brendon behind the cup.

That's how they spend the next four blocks: Brendon guiltily relishing the novelty of being the responsible one, and Spencer window-shopping and judging the appearance of everyone who passes them under his breath, so only Brendon can hear. That is, until Brendon freezes in the middle of the sidewalk. His mouth falls open.

" _Dude_ ," he breathes, almost reverent. He almost runs into a couple of people as he walks up closer to the store window they're in front of, tugging his arm out of Spencer's light hold. "Dude, Spence, look."

Spencer rolls his eyes, but comes to stand beside him and look in on the intricate display - there's a huge collection of children's book figurines, set up inside an ancient-looking miniature carnival. "Hey, cool."

The figures are real glass and wood, and none of them are Disney princesses; they're _creepy_ , Brendon is delighted to find. All the characters look either half-dead or half-crazy; the Bremen town musicians all have goofy expressions, and there's a huge wolf skulking at the outskirts of the carnival, his eyes glowing red. "Dude," Brendon says again. "We're totally going in." Beside him, Spencer doesn't even attempt to argue about schedules and sound checks. He just nods, still staring at the display.

"I have to finish my coffee," he says distantly, to Brendon's despair. In the next second, however, Spence takes the top off of his coffee cup and starts gulping it, so Brendon only has to wait about half a minute before Spencer finishes and finds a trash can and they can finally, _finally_ go inside.

A bell above the door jangles cheerfully, but otherwise the shop is eerily still. There are shelves looming above them almost to the ceiling, all the walls covered with them. A few old leatherbound books are open and proudly displayed behind glass, and there's absolutely nobody around. "Hello?" Brendon calls, shrugging off his coat, getting distracted by a basket full of old songbooks.

"Bren," Spencer calls from an aisle down. Brendon grabs for an old Rodgers & Hammerstein playbook and ventures further into the store, finding Spence and coming to look at the book in his hands. "Look at the illustrations," Spence says, thumbing through the yellowed pages, stopping at the colorplates.

"Damn," Brendon murmurs, nudging Spencer's arm up so he can see the spine of the book. "Little Women?" he asks.

The laugh in his voice is obvious, he guesses, because Spencer shoots him a vaguely annoyed look. "It's Crystal's favorite. I was thinking, y'know, birthday present or Christmas or something."

Brendon can't help it; he snickers. "You know your sister's favorite book?" he asks incredulously.

"Blow me," Spencer says loftily, thumbing through the pages.

"No, hey, that's sweet. Do you know when she's on her period, too? Are your cycles synced?"

Spencer glances up at him, raises an eyebrow. "She got the movie for Christmas one year, and _wore through_ the tape. And she made us act out her favorite scenes. Also, fuck you, my relationship with my sisters is perfectly healthy."

"Yeah, no, totally. Perfectly healthy," Brendon nods, picking up the closest book and riffling the pages for a few seconds, long enough that Spencer closes his own book and looks up warily. "So which sister were you? Were you Kirsten Dunst or were you the one who died?"

Spencer sighs, huffs a little laugh and rubs a hand over his eyes. "I was the oldest one. With the missing glove."

"Dude, I don't even _remember_ that one."

"Yeah."

Brendon thinks about this for an aisle and a half. "You would have been a good Kirsten Dunst."

"Thanks, man." Spencer says solemnly, tucking the book under his arm. "I really appreciate that."

 

They split up for the next ten minutes, wandering down parallel aisles at similar paces. Brendon gravitates towards fiction and music, as ever, and for once doesn't grumble over Spencer's new non-fiction and DIY enthusiasm. He doesn't want another spiel about how Spence _doesn't want to read about things that never happened to people who don't even exist_. Then he stumbles across almost an entire fucking _row_ of old, dusty sheet music, and that's at least the next twenty minutes of his life, instantly lost. Brendon sighs, almost regretful at his sudden amazing luck, and he gingerly picks up the first stack of paper and begins to go over the faded titles and time signatures.

Half an hour later, Spencer finds him sitting on the floor in the same aisle, sifting through the last of the sheet music, dividing into piles around him ("have to buy this _right now_ ", "already have it" and "maybe - ask Spencer"). "Oh my god," Spencer huffs, breaking into quiet laughter. "It's like walking into _A Beautiful Mind_ , seriously."

"Jennifer Connelly's hot," Brendon supplies absentmindedly, biting his thumbnail as he squints at the key signature for another song. "Do I already have Rhapsody in Blue?"

Spencer pauses, and shifts the stack of books he's holding in his hands, holding it more securely against his chest as he thinks. "I don't...maybe? I think you only bought the clarinet part because you wanted to try to work it into the Sinatra song."

"Oh." Brendon sets the music he's looking at down in the first pile. "That's the piano version."

"Cool," Spencer says after a few seconds. "Found a couple of things for Mom and the girls."

"Matching copies of _Sisters of the Traveling Pants_?" Brendon asks cheerfully, actually setting down the fourth copy of "The Entertainer" he's run across, into the second pile. "You can all read it out to each other over the phone and cry."

"Fuck you," Spencer retorts just as cheerfully. He reaches into the stack against his chest and finally pulls out a coffee table book of Dorothea Lange photos. "For Jackie."

"Awesome," Brendon nods. He holds up the sheaf of papers he was thumbing through, and gives Spence a guilty smile. "Ragtime." He reaches a hand up to grab the nearest bookshelf, and hauls himself up onto his feet, groaning at how his hips protest. Obviously he's been sitting too long.

"Your kryptonite," Spencer sighs, balancing the books gingerly against his chest as he uses one hand to push his hair out of his face. "What're you - "

"Help you boys find something?" comes a paper-dry voice from behind both of them. They each jump a little, startled half out of their skin. Brendon whirls around, his jacket whipping around his waist as he comes face-to-face with a tiny old man who seems to have more wrinkles than actual unlined skin on his face. Behind him, Spencer bobbles the copy of _Little Women_ that's still on top of his pile of books and nearly drops it, clutching it tight to his chest before it can slip out of his reach.

"Um, hi," Brendon says weakly, giving the old man a nervous smile. "You scared the crap out of us."

The old man blinks slowly.

"We're just looking," Spencer supplies, wincing as he tries to flatten a page in the book that got creased when he nearly dropped it.

Still the old guy just _looks_ at them for a long moment, taking in the way Brendon starts to fidget and Spencer tries (unsuccessfully) to hide behind him, angling the book to where he hopes nobody can see how he's trying to fix the page. "Looking, huh?"

"Yeah, um," Brendon says, biting his lip for a moment, glancing around the store, anywhere but at the wrinkled enigma in front of him. "But we - we'll let you know if we need any help?"

The old guy rolls his eyes, and darts a gnarled, spidery hand underneath Brendon's folded arms, easily plucking the book out of Spencer's grasp behind him. "You're not going to get the page flat like that," he wheezes, his voice still dry and crackly. He gestures for them to follow, and starts towards the sprawling, ancient desk in the center of the store. "Two minutes."

"Sorry," Spencer mutters, and Brendon doesn't have to look back to just _know_ that Spence is going red. He ducks down to grab his stack of music, and try to shove the other stacks back onto a shelf haphazardly, before he scurries after the old man.

"It's not _too_ creased," the old guy says, not even registering that they weren't behind him for half a minute, pulling out a couple of heavy-looking old books from behind his desk. "It'll be right as rain in a minute." He peers at the page, and then closes _Little Women_ and sets it down gingerly on top of the dusty old cover of one of the books he just dragged out. Then he grabs the other, and drops it with a huge _THUD_ onto the top of the novel. Brendon jumps, and he could swear he hears a tiny protesting whimper coming from behind him.

"Dude," Brendon mutters. "Does that actually work?" he can't help asking, interested despite himself.

"Always has before," the old man says, shrugging a painfully thin shoulder. "Been doing it sixty-odd years."

"This is your store, then."

The old man reaches into the inside pocket of his vest and pulls out a pair of bifocals, fixing them on the bridge of his nose before he gives them both a small smile. "Wouldn't presume to call it mine, at this point, but that's my name on the front window." He holds his hand out for Brendon and then Spencer to shake, not noticing how they handle him sort of gingerly, like one of his books. "Whitt Clemency, Antiquarian Bookseller and Purveyor of Literary Oddities since 1959."

"Hi," Brendon says, utterly charmed, as he shakes the man's hand. "Brendon Urie. Wandering minstrel, part-time bard."

"Aha," the old man breathes, one side of his mouth quirking up into a smile. For a brief, fleeting second, Brendon thinks _Ryan_ before the man composes himself and the uneven smile vanishes. "And your friend?" He glances over at Spencer expectantly.

"Spencer Smith," he mumbles, back and shoulders stiff. "I play drums." Brendon sort of wants to turn around and glare, but he knows it wouldn't help, not when Spencer's worked himself into this kind of recalcitrant silence.

Mr. Clemency (Brendon resolves to just call him _Mr. C_ in his head) gives Spencer a cool look, then nods slightly. "You break it, you bought it, son," he says, almost regretful, as he nods his head towards the copy of _Little Women_ , still sandwiched between the two huge books.

"I was going to," Spencer mumbles, abashed. Brendon turns to give him a smirk, but tempers the look by reaching out to cup his hand around Spencer's elbow for a second or two. Spencer shuffles forward, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, his hair falling down into his eyes as he looks through slots for the right card.

"No rush, no rush," Mr. C assures him, waving away his wallet and reaching to help Spencer tilt the stack of books onto the solid oak of the countertop. He picks up the first three books and reads the spines, raising an eyebrow at the juxtaposition of a Lord Peter Wimsey omnibus and _Russia in the Age of Peter the Great_ and _Medical Terminology for Dummies_. "There's a better compilation of the Lord Peter stories on the top row of Mysteries, actually," he says, mostly to himself, though he glances up at Spencer and raises a white eyebrow.

"Oh?" Spencer says, nonplussed, before he glances over at Brendon and shrugs a shoulder. "Well, um. Awesome, thanks." He turns around, and grins sheepishly when he has to ask Mr. C to point him in the right direction, and Brendon watches fondly as Spence disappears into the aisles of books again, his footsteps turning into little more than an echo.

"Still looking, son?" Mr. Clemency asks kindly, knocking Brendon out of his little trance. Brendon blinks, and gives him a guilty-looking grin.

"No, I'd better stop while I still have some money left," he admits, pushing the stack of music towards the old man.

"All right, we'll get you taken care of, while he looks," Mr. C nods, bustling around the register a little, stacking a few piles of papers neatly before he reaches his hand out for Brendon's carefully arranged stack of music.

"Thanks," Brendon says gratefully, pushing it over, watching interestedly as the old-fashioned register makes a series of noises and different price tags pop up every time Mr. C punches in a SKU code. On the fourth set of papers, though, the old man loses his patience the third time he enters in the code, and swipes it against the bottom of the register. From somewhere in the bowels of the register, there's the familiar _beep_ of a scanner reading the barcode, and then the price button pops up again. Brendon squeaks and glances up, gaping as Mr. C gives him a small smirk and a wink.

"Got to keep up appearances," the old man shrugs, reaching for the next book.

By the time Spencer comes back, thumbing through the pages of his new book, looking pleased with it, Brendon's just taking his card back from Mr. C and taking up a pen to sign the receipt. "Hey," he beams, signing the receipt with a flourish, handing it over to Mr. C who deposits it with great solemnity into the register. "Did you find it?"

"Yeah," Spencer says absently, looking over at the next page before he shakes himself and closes the book, setting it on top of his pile at the counter. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Mr. C orders, reaching to start at the top of the pile, beginning the painstaking process of entering in each ISBN code from the back of each cover. "Best place to get lost is a book," he says, with a small, secret smile on his face.

Brendon and Spencer exchange quick _are you kidding me with this?_ grins, and then Spencer gets sucked into the fascination of the cash register. Brendon watches Spencer watching Mr. C punch numbers in, and knows he's smiling stupidly at the whole process, but he can't seem to make himself _stop_ \- Spencer's eyes light up every time the book price jumps up at the top of the register, and it's hilarious.

Finally, _finally_ , they're at the last book - Crystal's _Little Women_ , freshly prised from in between the two huge books and all the pages nicely flat again. Brendon leans against the counter, looking over the edge of it, watching Mr. C's spindly fingers fly over the buttons as he enters in the code on the back. He pushes the last one, and -

Nothing.

All three of them blink, glancing around at each other. Mr. C huffs and starts again, punching in the numbers a bit more slowly, til he reaches the end and again - nothing.

Brendon bites his lip as Mr. C starts to curse under his breath, and he leans back towards Spencer. "Dude, watch this, it's got a fucking _scanner_ on the bottom, swear to God."

"Seriously?" Spencer breathes, his eyes bright and delighted as he watches Mr. C finish punching the numbers in one more time and _again_ , nothing happens.

"Goddamn it," Mr. C grumbles, as he swipes the book along the bottom of the register, ostensibly where the sensors are. Brendon waits for the _beep_ , but nothing happens, and he watches with growing concern as Mr. C continues muttering obscenities at the register, swiping the book back and forth across the hidden scanner.

Finally, long after Spencer's hidden his mouth behind his hand to keep from snickering outright, a weird _bonnnng_ chimes from somewhere in the register. Brendon glances up, and blinks at a red NO SALE sign sticking up out of the top of the cash register. "Huh."

Mr. C apparently hasn't noticed - he's still swiping away, muttering imprecations all the while.

"Um." Brendon swallows a laugh. "Mr. Clemency, it's saying no sale."

Mr. C pauses halfway through one pass, and glances up, his mouth falling open a little as he sees the little red tab sticking up. "...Oh, my."

"Does this mean I can't have my books?" Spencer asks, a plaintive strain in his voice as he gazes mournfully at his two stacks of books, meticulously chosen.

"No, it's." Mr. C brings a hand up to his mouth, pressing his fingertips against his lips for a second before he actually looks over at them. His eyes are suspiciously bright, and his hand is shaking a tiny bit. "Oh, my boys."

"Um." Brendon takes a step back from the counter, suddenly alarmed.

"I haven't seen that tab in thirty years," Mr. C says, gazing at it almost fondly. "To think, I never once imagined it could - well, the times, they are a-changing." His eyes slide over, moving slowly over Brendon in a speculative look that makes him shiver.

"Huh, yeah, funny how that happens," Spencer says quickly, taking a step to his left, insinuating himself between Brendon and the cash register, giving the old man a benign smile (which, whatever, Brendon and Spencer have had enough _discussions_ about Spencer's watchdog tendencies that he should know better, but if Spencer's determined to be the Kevin Costner to his Whitney Houston, well, Brendon certainly isn't about to stop him _now_ ). "Well, um. Sorry about your cash register, I guess we'll just be going, didn't realize how late it was - "

"Oh, for - I'm not going to _kill_ you, stop looking so traumatized," Mr. C snaps, losing the tremble in his hands as he comes back to himself a little bit. "I'm an old man, I'm allowed a few moments of nostalgia."

"Sure," Spencer says dubiously, still staying between Brendon and the counter. Brendon rolls his eyes and thumps Spencer's shoulder lightly, wishing Spencer weren't so fucking _tall_ all the time. Especially on the rare occasions he actually stands up straight, like now. _God._

Mr. C stares at the two of them (Brendon's just managing to peer at him over Spencer's shoulder), and shakes his head. "Got no poetry in your souls, that's what it is," he mutters to himself, frustrated, before he ducks down behind the desk and starts opening and slamming shut various compartments, by the sound of things. "Whole goddamn generation obsessed with...with robots and computers and tiny music players."

"And that rock and roll," Spencer mutters, mostly for Brendon's benefit. Brendon snickers dutifully, but apparently Spence wasn't as quiet as he thought, because from behind the desk, Mr. C scoffs audibly.

"Rock and roll, _my ass_. Kids these days don't know rock and roll, Chuck Berry had poetry coming out of his _ears_."

"Fuck _yeah_ he did," Brendon immediately agrees, hitting his hand on the counter for emphasis. "Promised Land? Hell _yes_."

"And Maybellene," Spencer cuts in.

There's a small pause, and then the sound of something big and heavy hitting the tile floors, behind the desk. "Knew there was a reason I thought you two were all right," Mr. C wheezes just before he pops back into view, struggling to drag an old hard-bound book up onto the countertop. He finally manages, and the book lands with another loud _THUD_ , sending up small eddies and whorls of dust, making Spencer cough quietly behind his hand.

Brendon and Spencer exchange quick looks, unsure about what they should be doing next. "...Neat," Brendon finally manages, confusion evident in his voice.

"Yeah, that's." Spencer visibly flounders for a second, before he manages to continue. "That's certainly a book." Brendon rolls his eyes, and shoots Spencer an incredulous glare.

"Your vote of confidence is overwhelming," Mr. C says, dry as parchment, before he runs a hand over the front cover, removing enough of the dust that all three of them can read the title: _Fairy Tales for All Ages_. On the front, there's a vaguely sinister watercolor of a boy and a girl smiling a bit too wide and holding hands, skipping through a field of daisies. Above them, a rainbow is arcing over the 1950s font of the title. The whole thing reminds Brendon forcefully of the old Little Golden Books his mom used to read to him at bedtime.

"Uh," Spencer says.

"Cool," Brendon adds, a beat too late. "Fairy tales, awesome."

"Don't patronize me, I'm not going senile," Mr. C grumbles, restacking Spencer's books on top of the big fairy tale one. It's not that the book is _thick_ , so much as it is just...long and unwieldy. It's got almost the same dimensions as a newspaper page. "And _yes_ , you still get your books," he tells Spencer, before Spencer's little frown can grow any more longing and pathetic. "Actually, won't even charge you, but only if you promise _on your lives_ to listen to the rules for the fairy tales."

"Fairy tales have rules?" Brendon asks, just before Spencer steps lightly on his toes.

"Deal," Spence says quickly, not one to ever pass up an opportunity for free shit. "What're the rules? No spine-breaking and no writing in the margins?" he grins.

Mr. C gives him an unamused smirk, and finishes shoving the books into two big bags. "Ah, no. And remember, you promised to follow them." He drags the bags around the counter, so Spencer can trot over and grab them, hoisting them up and shuffling back to where Brendon and the old man are waiting. "The first rule," Mr. C says, looking oddly solemn, waiting til Spencer and Brendon have stopped grinning so wide and are starting to fidget, "is _wait til you're home_ to open the book."

"But we're not - " Brendon starts, before Mr. Clemency cuts him off with a raised hand.

"Yeah, I figure you're from out of town. But I mean it. Just...stow it away and don't think about it, until you're back home."

"Okay, we will," Spencer assures him, folding his arms and looking sort of serious as he gazes evenly at the old man, getting into the whole ridiculous aura of danger and intrigue surrounding a book of _fairy tales_. Brendon has to remember to make fun of him for it, later. "What else?"

"Only open it together," Mr. C tells him, shooting Brendon a quick look, and an even quicker slice of a smile. For some reason, Brendon feels himself starting to blush, and immediately stares down at his feet, squeaking his shoes on the tile. "And once you _have_ started it, look out for each other and don't stop until you reach the end."

"Sort of like a _Project Runway_ marathon," Spencer murmurs. Brendon glances up quickly enough to exchange small smiles with him, but they're both kind of subdued - it's amazing how well Mr. Clemency's managed to turn on the creepy-scary vibe latent in all used bookstores.

"Promise me, boys," Mr. C demands, giving them both a grandfatherly, anxious look. "I'm serious."

"Promise," Spencer says quickly, holding his hand up like Mr. C's swearing him in before a judge.

"Yeah, promise," Brendon echoes, looking down at his shoes and at Spencer's bags and at his _own_ bag. And then he twists his wrist, glances down at his watch and winces - fuck, Zack is going to lose his _shit_ at them when they get back. He reaches over to grab the edge of Spencer's sleeve, give it a light tug. "We do actually have to get going."

Spencer cringes, and immediately dives into his jeans pocket for his phone, pressing it on and groaning when he sees the time. "Oh, fuck." They both exchange horrified looks, and then turn to give twin blank looks to Mr. Clemency, who's watching them with an almost amused look on his face.

"Um, thanks for the free books?" Brendon offers, sort of timid as he reaches his hand over the counter, relieved when Mr. C catches it up in a firm shake. "Your store is amazing."

"Thank you," Mr. C says politely, returning Brendon's hand to him and taking Spencer's up for an equally firm shake. "Come back and see me, if you're in this neck of the woods again. We'll swap stories."

He's smiling that odd, private smile again, and Brendon's left feeling unsettled as he gives Mr. C a lopsided smile and tugs Spencer towards the door. "We will," he says, reaching for the door, hauling it open.

"Bye," Spencer manages, just before Brendon pulls him out the door and onto the sidewalk, the two of them blinking in the bright afternoon sun. They stand there for a minute, stunned by the light, before the crowds absorb them back up and they drift back the way they came.

After a few minutes of walking, Spencer complains that the bags of books are too fucking heavy to carry all the way back and Zack's going to kill them if they're _that_ late for soundcheck, so they grab a taxi back to the venue. On the way, they collaborate on an elaborate excuse for their lateness, involving a fangirl horde, a baby carriage, and a lost kitten.

It doesn't work. Zack yells a lot. They find out afterward that he sneakily managed to track the GPS on Spencer's phone the entire time they were gone, and nearly sent a search party to the bookstore, after them.

After Zack's shouted himself hoarse about them obviously _wanting_ to get themselves killed or kidnapped, Brendon and Spencer steal back to the bus for long enough to throw their bags in their bunks and _run_ for the stage. One of the techs has a new tattoo, an alarmingly accurate depiction of the dick-riding-the-bomb drawing from _Superbad_. Naturally, everyone's talking about _that_ , so Brendon and Spencer forget to tell everyone about their weird adventure at the creepy bookstore, until it's too late to be relevant.

The bags of books and music stay in their bunks, shuffled around and shoved out of the way until Spencer's finally slide down the cracks at the headboard and slip under the mattress itself. Brendon's music falls onto the floor, kicked underneath by one of them in a hurry to get ready, and they both quickly forget about that afternoon in the bookstore, in a haze of laughter and shitty beer and fucking amazing crowds and music and _life_.

 

  


_  
**In a land far, far away**  
_  


 

They've been back from tour for three days before either Brendon or Spencer manage to stay awake long enough to actually shower, get dressed, eat, _and_ still have the energy to deal with unpacking. Brendon doesn't even remember getting back _home_. He suspects that Zack carried the two of them in with their luggage (not so much luggage at that point, more a collection of clothes and belongings stuffed into trash bags), dumped them on their beds, and left.

Brendon stumbles downstairs on the fourth day, and proceeds to eat the biggest bowl of cereal known to mankind, before he ventures out of the kitchen and into the horror of the living room and its growing Tour Blob. He stares at it in dismay for a few minutes before he sighs and just sits down on the floor. He starts to go through everything, one thing at a time.

Spencer's even less of a morning person than he is, and doesn't show up downstairs for another four hours, by which point Brendon's almost managed to sort through the big pile of shit in the middle of their living room floor. He's divided it into three piles: his, Spencer's, and trash. Bogart's snoring gently on the sofa, having helped by barking at Brendon as he ripped open the garbage bags full of shit, and barking at Brendon as he started sorting through things, and making Brendon run after him after Bogart snagged Spencer's favorite ragged Nigel Tufnel t-shirt he found in Toronto that one time.

Brendon really missed his dog.

"It's alive!" he crows predictably, as Spencer lumbers down the stairs. Spence flips him off, and Brendon laughs, shoving the last bite of his toast into his mouth and hurling one of Spencer's t-shirts (one that's reached levels of toxicity probably requiring a hazmat suit to handle) at his face.

Spencer splutters, and tosses the shirt back onto the floor. "Fuck you," he growls, stumbling into the kitchen. Brendon can hear him clanging around in there for a few minutes before Spence reappears, with a mug of coffee in one hand and potato chips in the other. He slumps over to the sofa, sinking down onto it with a groan, taking a long sip of coffee.

"Better?" Brendon asks, amused. Spencer nods his head, and Brendon knows not to expect more of a response than that, at least not until the coffee is halfway gone. He goes back to sifting through the junk on the floor, tossing clothes and magazines and shoes into one pile or the other, until he gets to two barely-familiar shopping bags. He blinks, and turns the nearest one over, reading the writing on the side. It takes him a minute, but then his eyes light up. "Oh hey, the books! Spence, the books! From the freaky place, the ones you got for free, remember?"

Spencer grunts, and grudgingly opens one eye to look down at him. "What."

"The used bookstore with the old guy who ran it. You remember, come on," Brendon chides him, reaching over to smack his leg. "It was in...um, Richmond? Maybe?" He punches Spencer's shin again, just for good measure.

Spencer grumbles and slides his leg away, and rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Ngh, fuck. Yeah?" he yawns, stretching his back, making both of them wince as it pops in half a dozen different places. "I mean, I guess I remember. The one with the top secret fairy tales, right?"

Brendon nods, and waves the bag full of music at him. "I found the shit we bought. ...Well," he amends, suddenly a little annoyed as the memories come flooding back, "the shit _I_ bought, since you were too goddamn special to have to pay for your books."

"Don't hate the player," Spencer tells him loftily, his voice half-cracking on another yawn. "I can't help being awesome."

"Awesome people pay for their books, Spencer Smith," Brendon informs him, turning his nose up. "Pay for their books and then don't _forget_ about them."

"You forgot about them too," Spencer replies evenly, tilting his head back to finish off his coffee. It takes a couple of minutes, but he does start to look more alert and passably _human_ , so Brendon starts poking him again, until Spencer reaches down to smack him, and then joins him on the floor to sort through their things.

It's another three hours before they get everything back into their rooms and into something resembling order. The pile of dirty clothes they've made in front of the washing machine is so incredible that Brendon has to take a couple of pictures of it. He winds up getting into an argument with Spencer over whether or not to post the pics to Twitter, but Spencer eventually wins, and Brendon sulks and sends the pictures to Pete, instead.

It works. Pete posts them. Brendon's a fucking _genius_.

After the mess in the living room is gone, Spencer is sweaty and gross and cranky again, so Brendon elects to take Bogart on a long walk around the neighborhood, giving Spence a chance to use up all the hot water in the shower and jerk off in relative peace. (Brendon is the best housemate _ever_.) It seems to work - when he and Boges get back, Spencer's cleaner and shiny-haired and looking more relaxed than Brendon's seen him in a while. He grabs a new bowl of water for Bogart while Brendon complains about how hot it is outside _already_ , and then Brendon heads toward the shower as well.

 

They're three and a half hours into a Law & Order marathon before Brendon thinks to bring it up again, and that's only because he notices the bag of books still on the landing of the stairs. "Oh, hey," he says, tilting his head up in Spence's lap, so he can see his face. Spence raises his eyebrows, and stills the hand that's been messing with Brendon's hair, twisting it into spikes. "Top secret fairy tales."

Spencer makes a face. "Really?" he groans, pulling his hand away to stretch a little, reaching his arms over his head.

"Come on, you're totally interested," Brendon wheedles, reaching up to poke Spencer in the cheek, just to annoy him. "What could be more exciting than spending a Wednesday afternoon looking at a book of kids' stories? _Nothing_ , that's what."

Spencer grabs at Brendon's hand, squeezing his fingers to the point of pain for a couple of seconds, as he seems to actually consider the question. "I could take a stapler and staple things to my head. Or try to teach Bogart Spanish. Or remove all my teeth with pliers."

"We don't have a stapler or pliers, and you don't know Spanish," Brendon scoffs, tugging his hand away and rubbing the knuckles gingerly. "Come _onnnnn_. You'll love it. I'll do all the voices."

Spencer hems and haws, but Brendon can tell it's just for show - Spencer's already starting to smile a little bit, a glint of interest in his eyes. "God, fine," he sighs, _finally_. "Top secret fairy tales."

Brendon beams up at him and stretches lazily, then moves to sit up. "Up, Bogart," he says, reaching for the dog still stretched out on his stomach, picking him up and setting him down on the floor. Bogart gives him a betrayed look, but flops over and closes his eyes again, and Brendon manages to pull himself up and off of the sofa in one fluid movement, stretching his arms behind his back until they pop. "Don't let him take my spot," Brendon warns Spence, as he makes a beeline for the landing, where the books are.

"He's a vicious killer, he does what he wants," Spencer protests halfheartedly. "I'm powerless to stop him." Brendon can tell he's gone back to watching Law & Order, but can't really fault Spence for it - D'Onofrio is a motherfucking _badass_. So he just grabs the bag and heads back over the sofa, flopping down on it, intentionally sitting halfway in Spencer's lap.

"Personal bubble," Spencer warns automatically, squawking when Brendon grabs the remote and turns the tv off. "They were just about to say who killed the homeless guy!"

"You've seen that one like _four times_ already," Brendon reminds him, completely unsympathetic. "It's _family_ time now," he says, taking the mature, grown-up high road and ignoring the amused snort Spencer gives.

Spencer rolls his eyes too, but otherwise doesn't protest, as Brendon rummages around in the bag for a few seconds before pulling out the big book of fairy tales. "Dude, that front cover looks like the 'For the Recently Deceased' book from Beetlejuice," Spencer grumbles, shifting so that Brendon isn't elbowing him in the side anymore ( _oops_ ). He fidgets, and manages to get the arm that was pinned between them up and out and across the back of the sofa, and just like that, the two of them sink down into the sofa together, comfortably.

"Kinda does," Brendon agrees, leaning back against him. "Boges, hey," he calls, singsonging the words a little til Bogart pokes his head up and looks semi-interested in what's going on. "Come on, come on back up," Brendon wheedles, patting the sofa beside him.

Eventually, Bogart takes him up on it, and when they've all settled back down again, Brendon shifts the book fully onto his lap and skritches Bogart's head and tries not to dwell on the sweet ache of contentment, how it's threatening to push out of his chest, start down his arms and legs until it consumes him whole.

Spencer exhales quietly, and presses his cheek to Brendon's shoulder. "Can you see?" Brendon asks him, halfway turning his head until he can see Spencer nod. "Okay," he says, settling back, letting his head loll back until he can feel Spencer's hair tickling his ear, " _Fairy Tales for All Ages_ ," he reads, before opening the front cover and turning past the flyleaf and table of contents, til he hits the first page.

" _Once_ ," he begins, " _there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess. Only a real one would do_."

"Like in dogbreeding," Spencer interjects unhelpfully, grinning when Brendon cranes around to glare at him for messing up the _experience_. "What?"

"Could you stop having strong opinions on everything for, like, two seconds, and let Bogart enjoy this?"

Spencer blinks. "Brendon. Bogart is a dog. A dog who is _asleep_."

"Yeah, well," Brendon huffs, fidgeting a little before he settles back down. It's weird, his fingers have gone sort of tingly - sometimes they do that when he's cold or when he's been sleeping on top of them, but not normally out of the blue. "Whatever. Wait, everything okay? Should we check in?"

"Present and accounted for," Spencer tells him, looking sort of sheepish for marring Brendon's literature high - as he _should_. "You okay? Marco?"

"Polo," Brendon responds easily, running his fingertip against the edge of the page. "Okay, don't interrupt this time."

"Promise," Spencer murmurs, and Brendon can feel a slight pressure against his shoulders, a brush against his arm as Spence lets the arm across the back of the sofa dangle down, curling around him a little.

" _So_ ," Brendon starts again, letting himself be lulled into an easy cadence with the words as he continues, " _he traveled through all the world to find her, and everywhere things went wrong. There were Princesses aplenty, but how was he to know whether they were real Princesses?_ "

He pauses, and looks up from the page, blinking to clear the haze away from his eyes. Everything has started to go blurry, white around the periphery of his vision, as if the edges of the room are fading away. " _There was something not quite right about them all._ "

And without Brendon or Spencer even noticing, the white encroaches as Brendon reads, until it finally curls up around them like a blanket and pops them out of sight.


	2. the first story

When Spencer comes to, he's already running, flat-out _sprinting_ through some unfamiliar woods, dodging trees and hopping over fallen logs and rocks. The sunlight is filtering down through the green of the trees, and for a few heartstoppingly long seconds Spencer has absolutely no idea what's going on. There's a disconnect between his body and his brain where they both wonder, independently of the other, just _what the fuck is happening_. And then Spencer slams back into his body, present again, and gasps in a deep breath, nearly choking.

Behind him, there are crashes and shouts that alert him to the fact that he's not alone in these woods (seriously, _where the fuck is he?_ ) and that he should probably keep fucking running. Fucking run faster, if he possibly can. He picks up his pace, fast as he can without stumbling over tree roots or fallen branches, and feels his face growing hot, his heart racing from both the exertion and untempered terror.

"Come back, milady, we don't mean ye harm!" comes a rough, wheezy, _definitely harmful_ voice, calling through the trees from far behind him. Spencer doesn't bother looking back, just grits his teeth and tries to run faster. He runs and runs and runs and runs, until he can barely hear the crash of people behind him, until his lungs feel like they're about to collapse or burst or both. Spencer brushes his hair back from where it's sticking to his cheeks and his forehead, and keeps running.

He breaks through a tangled snarl of underbrush and suddenly, the woods aren't there anymore. The world opens up, and stretching out in front of him, wide and yellow and sunlit, is a huge field of grass. Spencer blinks dazedly into the sun, and then realizes that the crashes in the woods behind him are getting nearer again, and he plunges down into the field, whipping through the stalks and strands that reach almost above his head.

Spencer pants as he struggles to keep up his pace - the ground is softer here, wetter, and Spencer has a startling realization that he's running through an actual field, lying fallow. He starts looking around, over the top of the grass, trying to find whatever house or barn or whatever that the field actually belongs to, something that might promise shelter or other people. Other people would be good. His eyes keep scanning the horizon worriedly, not finding anything promising until he hops over a tiny brook running through the middle of the field and follows it, twisting around a line of huge trees and finding himself - seriously - two or three miles from the fucking _Disneyland castle_.

"You've got to be shitting me," he wheezes, wincing as he presses a hand to his side, trying to stave off the cramp that's threatening to form there. He presses in a little harder, still running, until he realizes that his fingers are inadvertently tracing some sort of...dude, his clothes are seriously fucking _tight_ , no wonder he can't breathe.

Spencer looks down, confused, and notices for the first time that his fingers are actually skimming over the hard rib of a corset. A corset, which is underneath a very very frilly, very very tattered-looking _dress._

He stops dead in the middle of the field, shocked into incomprehension as he stares down at himself.

His dress is pink and lace and a delicate pattern of daisies.

"What the f - " he starts, but then he's tackled from behind.

 

Call it conditioning from having had to put up with Brendon's constant spazzing for the last six years, but Spencer quickly and efficiently flips himself over, elbowing the asshole who tackled him in the junk, scrambling away after he hears a gratifying yelp. He whirls around onto his feet, skirts twisting in a graceful arc as he pulls back and punches, hard and fast and quick as he can, into the bald, paunchy guy's gut. "Fucking _bastard_ , what the fuck," he hears himself hissing, not giving the guy a chance to answer before he just hauls off and beats the shit out of him, not stopping until the guy is a whimpery, bloody mess and Spencer's knuckles are all bruised and cut to fuck.

"Shut up," he spits, straddling the guy's chest and holding his fist up menacingly, perking his head up to listen as he hears the whishing of grass not very far away. The man underneath him quiets down obediently, and Spencer waits until it's been quiet for at least a minute before he slides off and gives the man a disgusted look. He stands again, delivers one more kick to the fallen man's ribs, and silently slides back into the grass, heading at a more moderate pace in the direction of the castle. The thin, wailing profanities and cries of the guy Spencer left on the ground are starting to filter over the field, and Spencer makes sure to keep quiet enough that he'd be able to hear someone coming, as he pushes through the grass. He's shaking, he realizes as his feet hit cobblestones instead of dirt, he's vibrating from adrenalin and low-level pain. He's pretty sure a couple of his fingers are actually broken. He's wearing a dress. He can't see his feet because of the voluminous skirts of said dress, but he has a sinking suspicion he's wearing _heels_.

Spencer glances down at himself again, and carefully picks blades of grass and leaves out of his hair and out of the folds of lace on his shoulders. He does up the couple of pearl buttons on his right sleeve that have come undone, and he bites his lip against a bright flare of pain as he takes a few steps forward onto the uneven cobblestones - he's pretty sure he wrenched his ankle at some point. He takes a couple of deep breaths, and continues, pretending not to notice the startled, scared looks of a couple of Amish-looking guys driving a horse and cart up the street. Spencer follows behind them, keeping his eyes on the edges of the road, watching warily for anyone who looks like they might've just chased him halfway to hell and back.

He zones out for a little bit, watching the fields as he passes, trying to block out how his legs and feet and now his hands are all really starting to throb. He's so checked out, in fact, that he almost runs into the Amish guys' cart in front of him when they stop suddenly. Spencer glances up, in front of him, and realizes that he's in front of what appears to be a toll stop, or a checkpoint, or something. Weird.

He sighs and figures they'll have a phone he can use, or something, but when the Amish guys get out of the way, Spencer's left staring at a couple of burly men in honest-to-god _suits of armor_. He blinks, unsure how to proceed.

They blink back at him.

"Seriously, what is this, some kind of secret Colonial Williamsburg thing?" he wonders aloud. The guard on the right looks confused, and tilts his head a little, taking Spencer in.

"'Ere, what happened, miss?"

 _Miss_ , Spencer thinks darkly, scowling at the man. "Some guys fucking _chased_ me through the woods and through that field over there! They were trying to rob me or something, I dunno!" he says, his voice getting shriller as he goes on. "One's probably still in the field somewhere, I kinda...he deserved it. I think I broke his nose?"

The guard on the right tsks. "Poor dear. What's your name?"

Spencer sort of wants to break this guy's nose too. "Spencer Smith," he replies, glaring so fiercely that the guard on the left takes a step back.

"Spencer... _Smith_?" Both men's eyes widen. The closest guard gives a nervous, fumbling salute and touches the tip of his helmet. "Thousand apologies, your highness, only we weren't to be expecting you til tomorrow."

Spencer blinks. "This is fucking weird," he mutters. "Look, just. Did Brendon put you up to this? With that stupid book? I mean I don't get the point of making me think I was about to get killed or anything and now I feel kinda bad about beating the shit out of that guy, but really - "

The left guard, the tall lanky one with the slightly stupid smile, positively _lights up_ at the mention of Brendon's name. "The Prince?"

Spencer stares at him, hands unconsciously coming up to rest on his hips. The boning of the corset and the flare of the skirts make it really comfortable, he finds. "Yeah, the prince," he says sarcastically. "Take me to _the prince_."

Both guards fall all over themselves to salute and bow and salute again, and then they fall all over themselves to flank Spencer on their way through the gate and into this Twilight Zone Ren Faire Brendon managed to find out in BFE. After half a mile, Spencer's everything hurts enough that he gets one of the guards to find him an empty carriage thing - he'd always wanted to ride in one anyway - and Spencer crawls inside and curls up on the supremely uncomfortable bench and actually falls asleep for the time it takes him and Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum to get to Cinderella's castle. He is going to fucking _murder_ Brendon when he sees him.

 

"Miss?" a whispered voice cuts through his sleep, pushing Spencer into opening his eyes. "Your Highness, we've arrived."

"Super," Spencer manages, voice gravelly as he struggles to sit up, groaning as the ribs of the corset dig into his waist and his leg muscles scream in protest. "Ow."

"You've been announced to the Court, they're waiting to greet you," the tall guard says, beaming at him until he realizes Spencer's giving him a look that could probably kill small animals. "Er."

"Yeah, awesome, because I really feel up to saying hey to whatever goddamn Medieval Times Ice Capades cast Brendon's talked into - nevermind," Spencer sighs, gingerly inching his way out of the carriage. "Ow, fucking ow, fucking - _fuck_ , okay, hang on." He sits on the floor of the carriage and cradles his injured hand to his chest, crossing his legs and tugging his skirt up over his knee. Both the guards gasp and turn away, carefully standing in front of him so no one else can see. "Whatever," Spencer grumbles, unable to muster the strength to be pissed about that too, as he cranes down to unlace and finally just tug off first one dainty, ridiculous little heeled boot and then the other. He gasps, and then groans his relief, leaning against the side of the carriage frame as feeling floods back into his feet. "Oh god."

One of the guards turns around nervously. "All right, your high - "

Spencer chucks one of the shoes over the guard's shoulder, and then the other. "Awesome," he says, tugging himself up with his one good hand, wobbling a little bit before he hops down out of the carriage. "Let's go find Brendon and kill him," he says, almost chipper.

 

Both the guards stay beside him, and Spencer gets the distinct feeling that they're as awed by the inside of the castle as Spencer is. The three of them gape up at the ceilings, the marble and velvet and tapestry, until some snooty-looking official in a laughable outfit comes and escorts them deeper into the castle. Spencer whistles, then gravitates towards a _fucking amazing_ set of ancient war drums just hanging out on one of the walls, gaping at them until one of the guards clears his throat loudly and gestures for Spence to catch up. Spencer sighs, and dutifully trots after.

 _Finally_ , they get to whatever room it is they're supposed to get to, and the official opens a couple of huge-ass doors, and Spencer and the two guards (he's almost starting to think of them fondly now) shamble inside.

"SPENCE!" comes a loud, familiar shout. Spencer is startled at how he goes cold and hot and sort of wobbly with relief as he sees Brendon push through a line of people and all but run towards him.

"God, you _total asshole_ ," Spencer manages when Brendon's within hearing distance, the sight of Brendon's fucking ridiculous smile sending something warm and worrying curling all through him. "I was almost killed, what the f - "

"Hey! Hey hey hey. Hey," Brendon interrupts, his beam quickly morphing into the _someone's listening so pretend to be happy_ forced smile that he used to give all of them during interviews. "Spencer Smith, we weren't expecting you until tomorrow!"

"Yeah?" Spencer asks, unable to keep himself from frowning, giving Brendon a dark look. "Sorry to be an inconvenience, it's just that, y'know, some guys tried to rob and murder me on the road and I kinda had to run for my life, so I guess I got here a little earlier than planned."

"Oh, you poor dear," another slightly familiar voice cuts through the room from farther away. Spencer blinks, and can't help looking a little incredulous as Brendon's _mom_ makes her way through the crowd (actually, the crowd seems to part for her), coming to stand on his left. "Though that does account for the state of your dress," she says, taking Spencer in slowly, tsking.

Spencer bristles and pulls himself up to his full height. He's never been Mrs. Urie's biggest fan but he's always been _polite_ , but if she can't do the same, then by all means -

"So!" Brendon cuts in, giving everyone a nervous smile, walking forward a few paces so that he's in between Spence and his mom. "That's terrible, gosh, we should really increase patrols on the main roads, especially with the market coming back into force. Can't have roving bands of thieves preying on unsuspecting _princesses_ ," Brendon says pointedly, giving Spencer a significant look.

Spencer folds his arms and glowers. "Yeah, speaking from experience, it really blows."

Brendon's mom makes a slightly strangled noise, and gives Brendon a pained look.

"I'll bet," Brendon says, stumbling over his words a little in an effort to fill the awkward silence. "That must have been _really scary_ , for someone so _delicate and proper and helpless_ ," he says, giving Spencer a pleading look.

"Yeah," Spencer says, drawing the word out as much as he can, til it's absolutely leaking venom. "It was. Especially when that one guy caught me and I broke his nose."

Brendon goes red and clears his throat loudly.

"...and then I fainted," Spencer adds after a moment, dully. "And burst into tears." Seriously, _Ryan_ would be proud of the monotone he's got going. "And fainted again."

He's pretty sure the sound Brendon makes then is from choking on a laugh.

"It must have been terrifying," Mrs. Urie - _Queen_ Urie, he should probably say - says drily. "Well! As you've arrived earlier than expected, Spencer, your quarters aren't quite prepared. But I'm sure we can find someplace for you to, ah. Freshen up," she says, and Spencer really can't be imagining the little curl of her lip as she looks him over one more time.

"Thank you very much," Spencer replies, giving her an icy smile. He hopes she isn't waiting for - for a _curtsy_ or anything, fuck that.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Mom, Spence can use one of the rooms in my wing," Brendon says briskly, walking forward and holding his hand out expectantly. "See you at dinner!" he calls over his shoulder, widening his eyes at Spencer until Spence grabs his hand and gets dragged quickly back towards the doors.

"But Brendon - " Spencer can hear Mrs. Urie protesting, before he and Brendon are out the door and halfway running down the hall.

 

Spencer waits until they've rounded three corners and nobody seems to be following them before he tugs his hand out of Brendon's and leans against the wall. "Seriously, _ow_ ," he says, frowning.

"Jesus, Spence," Brendon says, sucking in a breath as he gently tugs on Spencer's wrist, looking over his mangled knuckles and fingers. "There's a good doctor, I'll get him for these."

Spencer's a little ashamed of the high whining noise he makes when Brendon accidentally brushes against his fingers, and he pulls his hand away. "Fucking - _what_. What the hell is this, Brendon, where are we?" he snaps.

"Dude, it's the book," Brendon replies, giving Spencer a hurt little look. "I dunno, just. First thing I knew, I was waking up in a feather bed and everyone was calling me Prince Brendon and talking about balls and Mom and Dad trying to find a wife for me. It's been really weird."

"Yeah, sounds like it's sucked," Spencer says drily, giving him an unimpressed look. They just look at each for a long time, Spencer's gaze going sharper as he gets more and more annoyed with the whole situation, and by extension, Brendon. "You look ridiculous." Brendon _does_ look ridiculous, he looks like an extra from Merlin. He's wearing a multicolored doublet, and a hat with a _feather_ , and what Spencer strongly suspects are tights.

Brendon raises both eyebrows and lets his gaze drift down to Spencer's dress. "Really, Spence? _Really_?"

After a moment's standoff, Spencer's shoulders slump. "The book, really?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Weird." Spencer looks down at the floor, and pushes his toe against the seam of a tile. "Fucking...top secret fairy tales, what the hell. I told you that book was a bad idea, books that look like movie props are always books of evil."

"If we had a Falkor, you wouldn't be bitching so much," Brendon points out mildly.

"That's because Falkor was a badass. And that wasn't a Tim Burton movie," Spencer retorts.

"Yeah, point." Brendon looks oddly apologetic, and then reaches to put a hand lightly on Spencer's waist. "Come on, I promise I won't let the doctor do any bloodletting, or anything with leeches."

"Awesome," Spencer sighs, letting himself be led down the corridor, Brendon's hand gently guiding him down the hall.

 

The doctor has to reset a couple of his fingers. They were a clean break, he says, and he tells Spencer that in a few weeks, they'll be as good as new. He gives Spencer a big glassful of brandy and something to bite down on, and Brendon keeps Spencer looking at _him_ , looking away from his hand, and he holds Spencer's good hand and doesn't wince when Spencer gasps and grips it so hard Brendon's knuckles go white and bloodless.

Afterwards, Spencer feels tired and woozy and half-drunk from the brandy. Brendon gets him to the east wing of the castle, the wing that Brendon's claimed for his own, and manages to wrangle Spencer onto a bed in the nearest bedroom.

The room is all done up in pinks and greens, and there's a bed in the center of the room that must be at least seven feet high, complete with its very own stepladder. Spencer turns and gives Brendon his best _What the everloving shit?_ expression, and Brendon just shrugs. Spencer feels a twinge of annoyance at that - the bed and the fucking color scheme and at the whole princess issue before he just gives up. He crawls haltingly up the stepladder and sinks down into the feather mattresses and sighs, his eyes fluttering shut.

Then he winces, and opens them, and tries to sit up.

"Hey," Brendon chides, still standing on the top rung of the ladder beside him, pressing a hand lightly to Spencer's shoulder. His skin is warm, and Spencer exhales slowly. "Dude, just rest, okay?"

"I can't fucking - Bren," Spencer says, giving him a hazy, defeated look, his blue eyes clouded over, his hair pressed damply to his cheek. "These stupid clothes, I can't breathe."

"Oh." Brendon bites his lip, frowns a little, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment. "Okay, roll over. This shouldn't be too hard."

"That's what she said," Spencer mumbles, his eyes sliding shut. He makes a grumpy noise as Brendon pushes against his shoulder, but goes with it, rolling on the mattress until he's on his stomach. He huffs a breath against the pillow and reaches up to push it down out of his face a little, then stills. Brendon watches him carefully, and slides up onto the bed, hovering over Spencer's back for a moment or two. He reaches down and unties the laces at the back of the dress, loosening them until the material pools off to Spence's sides, away from his body.

"Jesus, ouch," Brendon winces, trying to wiggle a fingertip underneath the line of the corset, where he can see it digging into Spencer's back. He stops as soon as he hears Spencer suck a breath in painfully. "Here, hang on," he says, "I can't - yeah, sorry, tell me if your legs start to go numb, okay?" And then Spencer's eyes open, startled, at the small _whump_ above him as Brendon throws a leg over and straddles him, sitting back on Spencer's thighs. "Okay?" Brendon asks, a few seconds later. Spencer nods.

He shivers and presses his face a little harder into the pillow as he feels Brendon shove the material of the dress away, follow the boning of the corset down past his waist, down to the bottom edge, where it's tied. Brendon makes short work of the knot at the end, and Spencer can't help a sharp breath of relief as he feels the first give of material. Brendon's fingers work slowly, and he mutters to himself, half-breathed exclamations of _jesus_ and _fuck_ that, weirdly enough, make Spencer feel a little better. Like at least he isn't imagining that this situation is just completely fucked, at least Brendon's here to witness it too.

"Jesus, Spence, you've got like," Brendon whispers above him, once he's got the damned thing half-undone, " _grooves_ in your skin." Spencer nods and breathes a little easier, his eyes sliding closed.

"Everybody keeps calling me 'miss'," he grumbles halfheartedly, shifting underneath Brendon's weight a tiny bit.

"Fairest princess in the land," Brendon promises, his voice warm and teasing. He yelps and laughs as Spencer tries to buck him off, and grabs onto his shoulders. "Jesus Christ, stop, I've almost got the corset off. You wanted to get out of it sometime tonight, right?"

Spencer groans and flops back down onto the bed. "This sucks," he whines, submitting impatiently, keeping quiet as he tries to figure out what, precisely, the warm slide and press of Brendon's fingers mean he's doing up there.

Finally, Brendon gives a triumphant _ha!_ and there's the _zip-whoosh_ of fabric being yanked through a small aperture. Spencer jolts, startled. "Done?"

"You're a free man!"

"Thank _god_ ," Spencer says, stretching luxuriously for a minute, his arms above his head. "Holy shit, range of movement. Holy shit, _deep breaths_ , I _missed_ them."

"You're welcome," Brendon tells him solemnly, before he pokes Spencer in the side and slides off onto the mattress. "Tired?"

"I ran a half-marathon in heels today, dick," Spencer tells him, though with no trace of malice in his voice. He twists up onto his side, curling towards Brendon a little, looking up at him. "While you were ordering your servants around."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Get some sleep. I'll find you some new clothes and wake you up in time for dinner."

"Sweet," Spencer says, trying and failing to stifle a yawn as he flops onto his back and sucks in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut against a burst of pain as the mattress rubs against raw skin. "Fuck."

"Careful," Brendon tells him uselessly, reaching to pat his arm before he stands on the ladder and tugs a heavy blanket off the foot of the bed and up over Spencer's bare shoulders. "See you in a little bit."

Spencer nods, and reaches behind his head to punch his pillow into submission a couple of times before he settles into something faintly resembling comfort. "'Kay," he yawns, nodding his head a little, his eyes sliding shut again. He hears Brendon get down the ladder and close the door behind himself, and Spencer's only aware of the warm light on the other side of his eyelids, and the way the blanket over him smells like fresh-cut grass and flowers, before he's fast asleep.

 

When he wakes, the sun has set, and the room is almost pitch black. Spencer sits up, sucking in a breath as the skin on his back _burns_ , and peers nervously around the room before he realizes a small amount of light is being produced by an oil lamp on the bedside table. He slides out of bed and onto the ladder and down. Then he picks the lamp up, cupping it in his hands as he moves slowly, cautiously around the room.

Near the windows and the chair, he finds a few clusters of tallow candles, and lights them with just a little difficulty. Eventually the room glows with a half-light, shadows jumping and twisting over the walls as the candles flicker and spit. Spencer sets the oil lamp down in its original place, and notices that on the chair there's a new set of clothes - _two_ new sets, actually. He grins and reaches for the shirt and breeches delightedly, shrugging the shirt on over his head, pushing his hair out of his face. Out of habit, he reaches to skritch at his beard and nearly rakes his nails over his fuzz-free face, and Spencer's smile dims a little.

Then he sees the note pinned to the - ugh, the _dress_ Brendon brought, lying on top of the bed. _I know, it sucks, but I think we have to play along. Mom's being demanding, I'll see you at dinner! - Bden_

 _ps - IN THE DRESS!_

 _pps - YOU in the dress, not me_

 _ppps - sorry, again_

 _pppps - the dresses are cute. I think we have our next tour concept!!!_

Spencer rolls his eyes and tosses the note back onto the chair. He glares down at the dress (blue this time, at least) for a while, before he sighs and tugs the breeches on first. If he's got to suffer the indignity of wearing a dress and being called "miss" all night long, he's going to be wearing pants underneath the skirts, if only for his own peace of mind.

 

He stops running when he sees a cluster of servants at the other end of the eighty-first parlor in a row he's had to make his way through. Spencer takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to keep his chest from heaving as he demurely sits on the nearest chair and tries to subtly put his shoes back on (he couldn't fucking run in those things, and he was already running late).

One of the footmen is already on his way across the room, but Spencer manages to get his shoes on and stand, meeting him almost halfway, giving him a game smile. "So how lost am I?"

The man blinks, and his mask of solicitude and efficiency slips, betraying a quick grin. "Rather, your highness," he tells Spencer, gesturing for them to continue walking through the parlor. "There are, however, a few back stairways, if you don't mind a less scenic route?"

"No, that sounds awesome," Spencer breathes, barely curbing the impulse to clap the guy on the shoulder, since it probably wouldn't be very _princess-y_.

The less scenic route turns out to be a much more direct way into the main part of the castle, and it's about twelve thousand times more interesting than wandering through baroque parlors and sitting-rooms. Spencer actually gets to go through a _secret passage_ in the castle, although afterwards he's sworn to secrecy by the servant, since apparently not even the royal family knows about that one (except for Brendon, because even here, everyone loves Brendon).

Spencer's actually managed to make the guy _laugh_ for the first time, and is still beaming over his accomplishment, when they round the corner and almost run smack into the Queen.

The man immediately stops laughing, and goes a little pale. "M-Majesty," he stutters, before turning to dart a quick look at Spencer, who's trying his best not to look nervous or guilty about anything. "We found her."

"Lovely," the Queen drawls, curling her lip at both Spencer and the man in a way that makes Spencer want to punch things. It has the secondary effect of being really weirdly _comforting_ , though - in the real world, in _his_ world, Mrs. Urie would never, ever act like this. It's a relief to be able to divorce her so entirely from the woman standing in front of him. "I imagine you have chores that need attending?" she prompts, still sneering at the poor guy in front of her.

"Yes, your Majesty, thank you, your Majesty," the guy stammers, bowing and barely giving Spencer a smile before he almost _runs_ for the safety of the exit. Spencer blinks, and then turns a cool, level gaze on the Queen, making _damn_ sure he looks as unimpressed with her as he feels.

"Come along, we're already behind schedule," the Queen sighs, turning on her heel and clacking down the hallway, safe in the assumption that Spencer will just trail behind. He does, grudgingly, though he does take a certain vicious pleasure in lagging so long that at the last room before the hall, the Queen is tapping her foot impatiently by the time he arrives.

"Sorry," he says, giving her a wide, insincere smile. "The rooms are just so _beautiful_ , I get so distracted looking at everything."

"Plenty of time for that," she replies, frowning a little, "when this is your home." She sounds about as excited at the prospect as Spencer would be at a root canal.

"Of course, your Majesty," he says politely, clasping his hands behind his back. "Looking forward to it."

"Well," she sighs, reaching for the door and holding it open. "Brendon always did have such _interesting_ tastes."

Spencer rolls his eyes and grins as he saunters inside.

 

He's sitting beside Brendon, at least. The King and Queen have somehow rustled up about forty members of the Court and all of them are jockeying for position, subtly shifting name cards to gain closer access to the King or the Queen or whatever lady or lord in waiting is in favor this week. Brendon smiles constantly, laughs at a couple of unfunny jokes, and Spencer keeps his arms folded, raising an unamused eyebrow at a squat little man who keeps telling terrible joke after terrible joke in hopes of making "the lovely Princess Spencer" smile. Fucker.

"Why are they all looking at me like they want to eat me?" Spencer mutters to Brendon as soon as the Queen makes her grand entrance (ten minutes late, natch) and everyone's settled and beginning the first course. Brendon snorts and glances around the table, down its length, before he leans in, sliding an arm around the back of Spencer's chair proprietarily.

"They assume since you're a princess that I'm going to marry you and you'll be their queen," Brendon says, managing to keep his smirk mostly at bay, until Spencer gives him a thoroughly horrified look. Brendon breaks into snickers, biting his lip viciously. "Queen Spencer. It's got a ring to it, y'know?" he says, eyes shining merrily.

"Fuck you," Spencer says primly, taking a spoonful of mashed potatoes and "accidentally" flinging them onto Brendon's lap, enjoying the yelp he makes. ""Why isn't it completely obvious that I'm not exactly queen material?" he asks plaintively. "I have a dick. I had a _beard_."

"Can't speak for the dick, but the beard was impressive," Brendon agrees, wiping away the last of the potatoes off his clothes. "I think it's got to be the stories, they just assign you roles and make everyone go along with them."

" _You_ don't have a beard, _you_ should've been the princess."

"I guess the book just thinks I'm more princely and charming," Brendon sighs, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously at Spencer, until he snorts and gives Brendon a grudging half-smile. "Or it instinctively just knew that you were the prettiest girl on our label, up til the beard grew in."

"Fuck you," Spencer says again, for emphasis. "I am not princess material," he says, pointing his fork threateningly at Brendon, squinting his eyes, before he turns the tongs down to spear a cooked carrot. He smiles a little at the soft laugh Brendon gives, and gazes down at his plate for the next few moments.

Everyone's attention is distracted when the squat man who'd called Spencer "lovely" (Spencer sort of wants to kick him around. Like a very large, squeaky soccer ball) seriously _stands on his chair_ and proposes a toast. Spencer's stomach barely has time to plummet, his cheeks barely have time to heat through before he hears the man launch into his spiel: "To our honored guest. Her eyes are as pure and blue as her bloodline, her skin as fair as - " and that's as far as Spencer gets before he ducks his chin and considers hitting his head on the tabletop hard enough to just lose consciousness. Beside him, Brendon's _squirming_ with glee at his discomfort, reaching out at one particularly awful rhyme to actually grab Spencer's arm and squeeze.

"Shut up," Spencer hisses to him, trying to tug his arm away. "Make him _stop_ , this is so fucking - "

"No way, I'm stealing these lines for lyrics to a song," Brendon breathes, eyes shining with pent-up laughter. "Spencer, Spence, your lips are red as poppies and twice as intoxicating, your - "

"Shut _up_ ," Spencer hisses, his face going a brighter and brighter red. He's reminded, for a minute, of the time in eighth grade that he came in dead last during the quarter-mile run in P.E. class, even after all the girls, the mixture of curiosity and pity in their eyes. "Seriously, Bren, shut him up before I kill someone at your parents' fancy dinner party."

"That's not very princessy," Brendon points out, giving him an expression that manages to combine a leer and a pout.

"I'm not a princess," Spencer spits, scowling at him and twisting to look somewhere - anywhere, really - else.

By coincidence, his gaze falls onto the Queen, who is _staring_ at Spencer. Unblinking assessment is naked in her eyes and despite his anger, Spencer feels himself shrinking back a little - he gets the feeling that the Queen agrees with Spencer's self-analysis. _Wholeheartedly._

 _Fuck_ , Spencer thinks, just before he rises from his chair, effectively cutting off the asshole still standing on his chair, expounding on Spencer's lovely instep or whatever. "It was nice to meet you all," Spencer says stiffly, making himself push his shoulders back, unused to being the absolute center of attention. Forty pairs of eyes are on him, just as eager to pass judgment as Brendon's mom was, and Spencer swallows. "Excuse me," he finally manages, before he reaches shaking hands to push his chair back and then back up to the table. "Goodnight," he says, almost over his shoulder, as he makes his way as quickly as he can towards the nearest exit without actually running.

"Spence?" He hears Brendon stand, the scrape of his chair against the floor. "Hey, Spence, hang on." Spencer walks faster, pausing at a fork in the corridor, unsure, before his memory reasserts itself and he turns down the right-hand hallway. " _Spencer_."

Spencer whirls around, frowning even more fiercely at how his skirt - his _skirt_ \- billows out gently, twisting around him. "Fuck off," he snarls, clenching his hands at his sides so he won't have to think about how they're still trembling. Behind him, Brendon actually stops, frozen in the corridor, his hands raising up in defense.

"Whoa. Sorry."

Spencer glares at him for a long, tense moment, before he makes himself breathe out, and rubs a hand over his face frustratedly. "Look, just." He exhales sharply, through his nose, and puts his hands on his hips, frowning down at the floor. "That sucked. I hate shit like that."

"Yeah, I know," Brendon says, his hands slowly moving back down to his sides. "Just. Damn, Spence."

"Sorry," Spencer manages, the word leaving his mouth reluctantly. "Just - you know I hate that, okay? And I'm already wearing a dress and being fucking Princess Spencer because of a _book_ , could you cut me some fucking slack?"

Brendon has the grace to look a little ashamed of himself, his cheeks turning a very light pink. "Yeah. ...Yeah, okay. Sorry, man."

"Yeah," Spencer sighs, twisting his palms into the material of his dress, drying them off from where they'd gone all clammy during the dinner. "Will you tell them I went to bed, if anyone asks?"

"Okay," Brendon says, nodding too enthusiastically, his eyes still a bit wide as he looks Spencer over. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," Spencer nods, frowning a little, more at himself now. He sighs and folds his arms over his chest, squeezing his arms tight around himself for a second. "Yeah, it'll be fine. If your mom doesn't go, y'know, Queen of Hearts and cut my head off in the morning."

Brendon snorts, and offers him a small, sheepish smile. "She's pretty scary here. It's kind of weird."

"I'll bet." Spencer smiles too, lopsided. He glances back behind himself, and gestures towards the first door to his left. "That's where I was before, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Well." He shuffles his feet awkwardly. "Okay. I'll see you in the morning?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, looking sort of young and nervous suddenly. "We'll figure it out in the morning, Spence. Okay?"

"Okay. 'Night," he says, turning on his heel and shuffling towards his room.

"Night," Brendon calls after him, just before the door closes. Spencer exhales, long and slow, and thinks for a minute before sliding the lock into place. He turns and notices that all but two of the candles he lit before dinner have gone out, burned down to the stub, and he rolls his eyes at himself ( _could've burned down the fucking castle, dick_ ) before he starts to fumble with little buttons and ties and go through the laborious process of getting undressed for bed.

He's already beginning to feel pretty stupid for that meltdown during dinner, but fuck it, he'll worry about it tomorrow.

After a good five minutes of frustrated cursing and a couple of ominous rips somewhere in the fabric, Spencer manages to get the dress off, climb the rickety ladder, and he slides underneath the covers of his bed, shirtless and only in the pants Brendon left him. He grumbles a little, and then cranes to blow out the last candle, the one on the bedside table.

The dark of the room is unfamiliar and, at first, a little creepy. Spencer finds himself pulling the bedcover up a little higher, almost til it covers his nose, and he snorts at himself and forces himself to lie down still, squeezing his eyes shut. The sounds of distant laughter and music are drifting through the windows from the other side of the castle, where the feast is still under way.

Spencer's hand is starting to throb again, and he sighs and curls onto his side, tucking his hand against his chest protectively, his splinted fingers pressed against his skin. Even though he's still so tired his eyes keep threatening to cross, Spencer can't stop moving, shifting restlessly on the bed, his skin itching with exhaustion.

He clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Maybe he'll fall asleep and whatever selective mass hallucination he and Brendon are both having will be over in the morning. Maybe he'll wake up to Bogart whining to go out, to the sound of the automatic coffee pot grinding and dripping. Maybe Brendon won't remember this, won't remember Spencer wearing a corset, won't remember getting him out of that corset, won't remember Spencer flipping out at some state dinner. That'd be nice.

Spencer sighs and fidgets on the mattress for a few minutes more, pretending he's not remembering how Brendon's fingers were deft and quick and warm when they were unlacing that torture device on his back. He presses his face into the pillow until it grows hot, and then, a few moments after he turns his face to breathe, he finally slips into sleep.

 

 _"Spence." The voice is far-off and muted, like it's coming from underwater. Spencer frowns and presses his face harder into the pillow, but then he can feel a hand shaking his shoulder gently. "_ Spence. _"_

 _He grumbles and turns, slitting his eyes open. "What?" he growls at the figure hovering above him. He rubs his eyes, heels of his palms pressing in hard for a second, and when he finishes he recognizes Brendon standing beside his bed. "Oh, hey."_

 _"I figured it out," Brendon tells him, mouth set in a thin, determined line. He looks exhausted, his skin almost grey, with dark shadows under his eyes._

 _"Jesus, Brendon, are you - "_

 _"Come on," Brendon says, reaching underneath the covers, grasping his arm in cold fingers. Spencer winces, but sits up, pushing his hair off his face impatiently. "Come on," Brendon repeats. Spencer nods, still half-asleep, and slides out of the bed after Brendon stands. He yawns again, stretching, and then notices the look of distaste Brendon is giving his bare torso._

 _"What?" Spencer says, stung and defensive, folding his arms across his chest. "Don't tell me you want me to put the dress back on."_

 _"No, it's fine," Brendon says after a long pause. Spencer blinks at him, and feels a small thread of fear start to stitch itself into his stomach. "Follow me," he says, opening the bedroom door and walking silently down the corridor, obviously just assuming Spencer's going to follow along behind him._

 _Spencer scowls, but does follow. The cool night air makes him shiver, his skin going all over goosebumps as he trots to catch up to Brendon as they make their way quickly out of Brendon's wing and then out of the castle altogether, stepping out onto the grounds. The grass is cool and damp beneath Spencer's bare feet, and he shivers again, teeth beginning to chatter with the cold. "You could've mentioned we'd be going outside, dickhole," he mutters. Brendon just shrugs, and turns his head, giving Spencer a blank stare for a few seconds before he starts walking again, determinedly crossing the lawn._

 _Spencer sighs and follows after him, trudging along the grass, not really looking up for a while and following Brendon's tracks in the wet grass until they end, abruptly. He glances up and gasps, breath dying in his throat as he realizes he's standing on the very edge of a huge cliff. He stumbles back a few feet, nearly falling onto his ass, except Brendon is somehow there to catch him, hold him until Spencer can get his feet back underneath him again._

 _"_ Jesus Christ _," Spencer explodes, glaring at Brendon, shoving his chest. "You couldn't have mentioned I was about to walk off a cliff? How the hell did you get behind me, I thought I was following you!"_

 _"You weren't looking," Brendon says simply, watching Spencer with dark eyes. In the moonlight, with the shadows ringing his eyelids and striping underneath his cheekbones, Brendon looks almost inhuman, Spencer thinks. It's fucking creepy._

 _"You're an asshole," Spencer snaps back, folding his arms. "Seriously, it's fucking cold and you just almost killed me, now fix this like you said you could so that I can go back to bed."_

 _"Okay," Brendon says. But he doesn't move._

 _"Well?" Spencer asks, frustrated._

 _Brendon bites his lip and doesn't meet Spencer's eyes. It's turning blue from the cold, but he doesn't seem to notice. He reaches to rub Spencer's arm lightly, up over his shoulder, cupping his hand there. Spencer sucks in a breath as Brendon's thumb rubs circles into his skin, his hands are like ice._

 _"I need a princess," Brendon says softly, almost apologetic._

 _Spencer raises an eyebrow at him, unamused. "Sorry, but I'm pretty attached to my dick."_

 _Brendon's hand tightens. "It's. ...I need a princess," he says again, and his eyes actually move up to meet Spencer's. He finds himself taking a step back instinctively - Brendon's_ eyes _. His eyes are wrong. Dark and flat and shiny and completely unexpressive, and oh shit, oh_ shit _. The small curl of fear in Spencer's stomach suddenly explodes, and Brendon grabs his shoulder hard._

 _"I'm sorry, Spence," Brendon says, still sounding apologetic, still all blue lips and black eyes and grey skin and no color that's alive. "It won't work if it's you."_

 _"No, look, Brendon, you - " Spencer starts, stumbling over his words, trying to wrench out of Brendon's grasp. He should be able to, but Brendon's hand is clamped down on him like a vise. "It doesn't have to - "_

 _"Yeah," Brendon breathes, taking a couple of steps forward. Spencer tries to get away, keep as much distance as he can, until he realizes_ shit, the cliff _. "Yeah, it does."_

 _"Brendon," Spencer squeaks, reaching up to just grab his arm, hold onto him as he's backed up further, his heels barely still on land. "Brendon, don't."_

 _"Sorry," Brendon says again, with his flat black eyes, his face completely expressionless and so fucking alien that Spencer wants to scream. "I'm sorry, Spence. I'll miss you."_

 _"Don't," Spencer manages, though his lungs don't seem to want to work anymore, and his hands start shaking hard as he watches Brendon's expression break, watches a slow, horrible smile start curl itself all over his face, something dark and terrifying snapping in his eyes as his hand starts to let go -_

Spencer jolts awake and flails, and promptly falls out of the bed. There's a huge crash, and the oil lamp on the bedside table threatens to spill over, and for a few seconds Spencer's pretty certain he's actually managed to kill himself. Eventually he groans and breathes and manages to sit up. " _Ow_ ," he tells the room feelingly. "I am really fucking tired of this whole pain thing," he grumbles as he pushes himself to his feet.

He checks himself over for actual bleeding, and makes sure that the oil lamp is secure, and futzes around with the open windows at the other end of the room for a bit. By the time he's had enough of that, he's shivering from the cool of the night, and he figures he's probably awake enough not to inadvertently kill himself if he tries to climb the ladder up to bed.

After he's safely under the covers, Spencer sighs and shuts his eyes and waits for sleep to overtake him. He yawns and curls up on his side, and waits.

And waits.

And _waits_.

He switches to his other side, and mentally goes through the drum sequences for most of _Pretty. Odd_ , and still he's conscious.

Frustrated, Spencer flops onto his back and flings his arm over his eyes and actually tries to count sheep.

The problem, he realizes between 150-200 sheep, is that the fucking mattress keeps poking him in the back, or something. Which is insane, because not only are there probably like thirty layers on his bed, he's pretty sure that castles didn't generally have spring mattresses that can break. He's not sure what's causing all the discomfort, but still - right there, smack between his shoulderblades, is _something_. He twists, but whatever it is seems to follow him. He rolls over onto his stomach and hisses softly as he feels _something_ digging in between his ribs, in just the right spot to cause the most pain.

"Come _on_ ," he tells the room and the bed and life in general, pushing a pillow down between him and the mattress. That seems to work for a little bit, but then the pillow just starts to _itch_ against his skin, and seriously? _Seriously_?

Spencer sits up, completely fed up, and weighs his options. Obviously the bed is evil and hates him. It already tried to kill him once. After he contemplates that for a few minutes, Spencer's way forward seems pretty clear, and he gingerly feels his way towards the edge of the bed, grabs the bathrobe that he remembers seeing there, and climbs down the ladder, holding on tight til his feet reach the floor.

He swings the bathrobe on, shivering against the chill of the castle. Then he takes the oil lamp from the table, and holds it shoulder-level as he goes over to the door, unlocks it, and steps outside into the hallway.

 

It takes him ages and three dead ends, but eventually Spencer manages to find a doorway with a bit of light spilling into the hallway from the other side. He knocks softly, but doesn't get a response, so he tries the handle. It gives easily, and Spencer pokes his head inside. "Brendon?" he says, quiet. He pushes the oil lamp inside the room, squinting as his eyes adjust - there are a few candles still lit in the room, which helps.

After a minute, he's able to make out a bed, and someone lying on it, on the other side of the room. Spencer bites his lip, then figures that hey, it's not like he can embarrass himself more than he already did earlier that evening, right? He shuffles into the room and closes the door softly behind himself, and then slowly makes his way towards the bed. "Bren?" he whispers.

The person on the bed sighs and flops over, and Spencer has a hard time restraining himself from making victory arms and spilling hot oil all over his head - it's Brendon. "Urie," Spencer says, a little bit louder, now that he knows he's not potentially waking up the Queen or something. He smacks the end of the bed, the sound echoing in the room. Brendon jumps a little, and his head pops up.

"Whuzzat? S'going - Spence?" he asks, frowning and peering up at him. "The hell are you doing? I was sleeping," he says grumpily.

"Your fucking castle hates me and the bed in that room you gave me is evil. Scoot over," Spencer demands, coming over to the side of the bed and setting the lamp down.

Brendon gazes sleepily up at him for a few seconds, then nods and yawns and shimmies over a little. He holds the covers up, and shivers. "Hurry up, it's cold."

Spencer doesn't waste time - he slips underneath the covers, stretching happily, his body shivering one more time before it lets him go still. A wave of relief washes through him, so strong he could cry - there's nothing in Brendon's bed that wants to kill him or poke him in the back or scratch him (except probably Brendon). "Thanks," Spencer says, the word cracking in half on a huge yawn.

"Welcome," Brendon replies, patting his arm genially, "Still mad at me?"

"What?" Spencer mumbles, eyes closed. "Oh. No," he admits. "Sorry."

"Good," Brendon sighs, just before he scoots back over, pressing up to Spencer's side and - and fucking _twining_ around him. Spencer whines a little, but he's too tired to do anything else, so he just goes with it. It's not uncomfortable, after all - Brendon's warm and he smells good, like old soap and honey. "Spencer Smith the Fifth," Brendon sighs, his mouth somewhere near Spencer's ear (Spencer can feel the heat from his breath). "Night."

"'Night, Brendon," Spencer murmurs, snaking an arm around his thin shoulders and squeezing. He presses his cheek against the warm line of Brendon's neck, and twists his fingertips through the ends of Brendon's hair. The rhythm of their breathing is what eventually lulls him to sleep.

 

Spencer wakes to sunshine and the smell of baking bread and the sound of Brendon Urie and his mother having a screaming fight on the other side of the room.

"THE SERVANTS ARE ALREADY TALKING ABOUT IT," his mother screeches, and Spencer's sort of shocked at how grey her hair has gone - she must have been wearing a wig at last night's dinner. "THE MAID SAID SHE COULDN'T TELL WHICH ARMS WERE WHOSE."

"Then stop fucking sending in servants before breakfast, Mom, _jesus_!" Brendon explodes, gesturing wildly, his hair a mess. He's still half-dressed, wearing a set of loose pants and that's it. Still in bed, Spencer's frozen, too afraid and too entertained to risk moving and deflecting any attention onto himself. "People always talk! It's what they do!"

"NOT LIKE THIS," Brendon's mom shouts, the veins in her neck and forehead starting to become more prominent. "I can't _believe_ you!" she snaps, folding her arms, obviously trying to compose herself. "I can't believe you _fell_ for - do you just let any old social climber into your bedroom these days? I thought your father and I - "

"Hey!" Brendon shouts, folding his arms as well, every line of his body going taut and defensive. "Spencer isn't a social climber, and - "

"Oh, _Spencer_. A first name basis, how intimate - "

" - I don't let just _anyone_ into my rooms, and I trust - "

"Don't be so naive!" the Queen shouts. "She's not even a princess! She said so herself!"

Brendon gapes at her. "Yes he - she is too!"

Suddenly, Spencer's had enough eavesdropping, and sits up in the bed, giving Mrs. Urie an unimpressed look as she just stares at him. "Everyone seems to think I am," he points out calmly. "And even if I wasn't, I would still have enough self-respect not to try to trick someone into having sex with me, what the fuck," he scowls. He folds his arms. "The only reason I'm here is because the damn bed I was in originally was so fucking uncomfortable I couldn't sleep, okay? Now for fuck's sake, can the two of you move it outside? I'm tired as hell."

From across the room, Brendon gapes at him, and then claps a hand over his mouth to try to suppress his small burst of laughter. The Queen just looks like she's been smacked in the face with a fish. "You...the bed? It was too uncomfortable?"

"Yeah," Spencer says snippily. "Something kept poking me in the back." He can hear Brendon's muttered _that's what she said_ , even from across the room.

The Queen gapes at him for a long moment, then at Brendon, then flies from the room, throwing the door open and stomping down the hallway. Brendon gives Spencer a helpless look and follows after. After a minute, Spencer rolls his eyes and slides out of bed, rubbing his arms for warmth as he follows Brendon out the door and down towards where the Queen has gone, back to the room he was in last night, with the seven-foot-tall bed.

He suspects the Queen has had some break with reality (like the rest of them _haven't_ ), because once he gets there, he sees her frantically tugging mattresses and pallets and blankets off the bed, squawking angrily as they threaten to topple over on her, growling under her breath.

"...Mom?" Brendon asks, nervous, coming to stand beside Spencer. He puts a hand on the small of Brendon's back, stilling him, as they both watch her completely wreck the bed, making short work of all the layers until it's at a normal height.

"Ma'am, what exactly - " Spencer begins, stopping mid-sentence when the Queen whirls around and gives him a filthy look.

"You said so yourself, you said you weren't princess material, you - "

"Yeah, but what does destroying the bed have to do with - "

"It's STILL THERE," she shrieks, pointing to the last mattress, flailing her hands. "It's still _there_."

Brendon gives Spencer a worried look, and the two of them edge over to the bed, trying not to anger her further. "Mom, what - " Brendon starts, before he sucks in a breath and actually starts to laugh. Helplessly.

Bewildered, Spencer cranes his head over Brendon's shoulder to see just what the hell is happening. It takes him a while, but finally he sees it - the red-faced Queen is pointing at the middle of the mattress where there lays a single green pea.

He blinks. "You've got to be shitting me."

Brendon turns, his eyes crinkled up and almost teary with mirth. "Congratulations, Spencer Smith, you're a real princess! You can totally marry me!" He wraps both arms around Spencer's middle and clings, still shaking with laughter.

Spencer pats his head bemusedly, and opens his mouth to respond. And then he feels it - a swooping, familiar tug just behind his bellybutton. "Aw, fuck," he manages, before the world and Brendon drop away, replaced by a blinding flash of white.


	3. the second story

His eyes slowly start to focus on objects solidifying out of white, and Spencer blinks a few times, shaking his head, til he can pretty much tell that he's standing inside the front hall of, great, _another_ castle. _Standing_ this time, that's nice.

Then he thinks of something, and glances down. " _Fuck._ "

The dress is red this time, and expensive-looking. He groans and skims his hands over the beaded bodice of it warily, then notices that his fingers aren't splinted anymore, and seem to be functioning perfectly. He flexes them, just to test. Yep, good as new.

"This doesn't make the dress okay," he announces to the room and whatever else might be in there with him.

"Pardon?" comes a voice behind him. Spencer whirls around, ignoring the way the dress swishes, and raises his eyebrows at a mousy-looking man behind him.

"Oh. Um, nothing," Spencer says, tilting his chin. "Hello."

"Hello."

"...I'm Spencer," he offers, giving the man a tentative smile. "Er, is - "

"Yes, we're running a bit late this morning, I'm afraid," the man says, interrupting, gazing unhappily down at a scroll. "If you could follow me."

"I will if you tell me what I'm supposed to call you," Spencer says, raising his eyebrows expectantly, hands coming up to rest on his hips. "That was supposed to be an introduction, what I just did there."

"Hmm. They did say you were spirited." The man gives Spencer a mostly-approving look, which is equal parts skeevy and sort of gratifying. "Percival Jones, Page to His Majesty the King of - "

"Cool," Spencer says, nodding decisively. "So I'm going to call you Percy."

"If you must," Percy sighs, rolling the scroll up and tucking it under his shoulder. "The king will see you now."

"Oh." Spencer sighs and frowns a little, pushing his hair back off his face, running his fingers through it. " _Great._ " He wonders, idly, which story they've landed in, and then he's distracted by the _clack-clack-clack_ his feet are making on the marble floors, and he's blushing foolishly by the time he gets to the room the king's in. He follows Percy the Page in, and looks around curiously - this place is a lot more opulent than the last castle; it looks like Vegas. Like there should be waitresses in very little clothing wandering around, offering people cocktails.

"A- _hem_ ," the page says pointedly, staring at Spencer and making a tiny bowing gesture. Spencer glares, but does as he's told and manages a half-assed curtsy to the room in general, sort of towards the end of the room where, predictably, there's a big huge throne.

And then Spencer gives a little groan of relief, because Brendon wasn't even paying attention, he totally _missed_ the curtsy. At the other end of the room, Brendon is lounging in the overcompensatory throne, plucking interestedly at what appears to be a cross between a balalaika and a sitar. Spencer can feel the tension seeping out of his back and shoulders.

"The milliner's daughter, Your Majesty!" Percy calls, sounding sort of put-upon as he scurries closer to the throne. Spencer watches, a little amused, as the man deftly plucks the instrument out of Brendon's hands and gives him a glare, nodding towards the other end of the room. Brendon looks up, and beams, his whole face lighting up as he sees Spencer.

"Well hey!" he yells, standing and clapping his hands together once, coming forward excitedly. He does this awkward little skip-hop down the floor, and Spencer barely manages to hold back his snort of laughter, ducking his head a little so Brendon can't see how wide he's smiling. God, seeing him is such a _relief_. "Spence! Hey!"

"Hey yourself," Spencer replies, a little more sedately. He waits until Brendon's less than a few feet away before he adds in an undertone, "Which story is this?"

"No clue," Brendon says, still grinning like an asshole. "Nice dress."

"Fuck you," he offers placidly. He glances down, and raises an eyebrow. "Nice tights, jackass."

Brendon looks down at himself and snorts. "Ross put me in worse," he shrugs. "They're kinda liberating."

Someone clears his throat next to them, and they both look over - Percy is staring at them with a scandalized expression on his face. "So...you're already acquainted," he says, words mottled and sticking in his throat oddly.

"Yeah," Spencer says coolly, folding his arms. He tilts his head to the side a bit and gives the man an icy smile, letting the silence stretch on, long and awkward.

"Yeah, I, uh," Brendon stammers, trying to pick up where Spencer dropped off. "I...was out riding. Like, a few months ago? And, um, fell off my horse, and Spencer was nice enough to let me stay at hi - her house til I felt better."

"Ah."

Spencer rolls his eyes for Brendon's sake, and then gives Percy a sickly little smile and bats his eyelashes ridiculously.

"So I take it that's when her father told you?" Percy asks.

"Uh?" Brendon looks just as flummoxed as Spencer feels, and they both stare at the man until he fidgets uncomfortably. "Told me what?"

"Er. That she can spin straw into gold, majesty," he says, looking at them both as if they're crazy. Which...Spencer concedes that the guy may have something there. "Hence the royal decree you gave yesterday that if it's true, you'd marry her." He turns and gives Spencer a slightly pitying glance. "We haven't been able to locate the milliner since, unfortunately."

Spencer frowns. "Wait, so. Brendon's going to marry me because my dad said I could spin straw into gold?"

"Er. Yes."

"Man, that's fucked," Spencer breathes, giving Brendon a horrified look. "What the shit, Bren, what the hell kind of priorities are those?"

"Dude, I didn't know, I just got here! What the hell is _your dad_ doing, saying you can spin straw into gold and then skipping town?"

"I, ah," Percy interjects, holding up a finger. "There was a bit of material compensation for the information involved, I believe."

"You fucking paid him off." Spencer glares at both of them. "You paid him off _before_ you knew if it was true or not. Awesome. Yeah, cool, great, so I'll just go turn vegetable into a mineral with my fucking _magic wand_ \- "

"H - She doesn't actually have a magic wand," Brendon says hastily, giving a horrified Percy a very wary glance. "She's just joking."

" - so that I can be married off to the first financially insolvent royal dicksmack who offers my con artist dad a shiny new goat. Fairy tales fucking _suck_ , seriously," Spencer fumes. "Especially if you're the girl."

"I'm sorry," Brendon says, and he does actually look sort of guilty, which just serves to piss Spencer off more since it really isn't _Brendon's_ fault they're both here. "I'll be the girl next time, okay?"

"Whatever, next time I'll probably get to be a _troll_ ," Spencer mutters mutinously, feeling his cheeks flush through. He rubs his hand over his arm awkwardly, fidgeting a little. "So, what, I just get to go stare at a bunch of straw until someone learns enough about science to know it isn't actually possible to change it to gold?"

"Ah," Percy says, looking apologetic. Spencer is immediately suspicious. "Not precisely."

Brendon glares at the guy. "What's that mean?"

"She, ah," Percy says, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he quails underneath the weight of their twin stares. "She has until tomorrow morning."

Spencer's stomach drops. "And then?"

Percy gives him a miserable look, and draws one finger across his throat.

Spencer blinks, and then turns to raise his eyebrows expectantly at Brendon. They stare at each other for a couple of seconds, and then Brendon finally cottons on and groans. He turns to the side a little, shoulders hunching up. "Oh hey, wait," he says, gesturing frantically to the gathered officials and guards for a second. "Don't lock 'im up, I'm the king and I'm ordering Spencer Smith to - "

Spencer hauls back and punches Brendon in the arm. _Hard_.

" - yeah," Brendon gasps, winded, automatically curling his hand over his arm, his eyes squeezed shut. "That."

"Dick," Spencer grumbles, folding his arms and fighting to stay at least somewhat collected (though his cheeks are a brilliant red) as he follows after the page, sweeping back towards the doors. He doesn't look back, but before the massive doors close behind him, he hears Brendon grumble something under his breath and then follow after.

 

Spencer doesn't want to think about the number of stairs the hapless servants of Brendon's castle had to walk to fill one of the topmost tower rooms with this much _straw_. Seriously, the tiny circular space is full to the ceiling in places; it looks like a barnyard version of Scrooge McDuck's swimming vault. He glances around in horror.

"Shit," Brendon mutters behind him. Spencer has the urge to punch him again, but lets it pass, feeling instead the familiar tugs of terror grip inside his stomach. "Shit, Spence," he says quietly.

"This sucks," Spencer mutters, just as much for his own benefit as for Brendon's. "Seriously, how am I - "

"I suppose we'll let you get to it!" Percy says brightly, clapping his hands together once before he turns and sees the looks both Brendon and Spencer are giving him and visibly deflates. "Oh. Ah - yes, well. I'll just. See to the plans for the feast tonight, shall I?"

"Good idea," Brendon says tersely. Spencer gives him a sidelong glance and sighs; Brendon's jaw is locked, his shoulders and fists both tensed into hard lines. He looks fucking _pissed_. "Don't count on me being there," he adds a second later.

"But your majesty - " Percy says, before self-preservation kicks in and he shuts his mouth. He nods and gives Spencer a watery smile before fleeing the room.

Spencer exhales, and doesn't even think before he's wrapping a hand over Brendon's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Hey," he says, using his grip to haul Brendon back against him a little, try to make him calm down, "hey, breathe."

Brendon nods, a short, sharp movement, and leans back against him. "This fucking - what was that guy thinking? At the bookstore?"

"I don't know," Spencer says truthfully, kneading into Brendon's skin a little. "Maybe he didn't really know what was going to happen?"

"Maybe he hates our music," Brendon muses, slumping against him a little more, sighing as he tilts his neck to give Spencer's hand more room.

"Maybe he's James Montgomery's dad," Spencer supplies. He frowns, and then reaches up with his other hand to mirror his movements, rubbing small circles just above Brendon's shoulderblades. It's a habit they fell into during the blink tour, and Spencer feels the same weird grateful possessiveness that he felt then - it keeps Brendon from freaking out, but it also gives Spencer a chance to check out for a little while, not worry about anything else.

"Maybe," Brendon sighs after a few minutes, leaning back against Spencer, pliant enough that the back of his head is almost resting on Spence's shoulder, "maybe it's not real, maybe they won't actually. They can't seriously _kill_ \- "

"My fingers felt pretty broken last time," Spencer cuts in, his voice a little clipped, but he can't help it. He bites his lip, and then bullies Brendon into sitting down, spreading his ridiculous royal cloak on one of the piles of straw and then leaning back against it.

"M'sorry, Spence," Brendon says, looking so suddenly miserable that Spencer can't help sighing and tugging him in a little. "I don't know why all the shit keeps happening to you."

"Just lucky," Spencer replies, dry, as he props his head lightly on Brendon's shoulder. He sighs and closes his eyes as he feels Brendon's fingers start to slide their way through his hair, back to front. "Going to fall asleep," he warns him.

"Okay," Brendon replies, almost cheerful. "I probably will too."

Spencer huffs, and stifles a yawn that seems to have come out of nowhere. "Ugh, shit," he grumbles, shifting his legs out from underneath him, stretching a little, slumping against Brendon. "Cover up in the cloak," Spencer orders him. "Or else you'll get cold."

"Okay, mom," Brendon scoffs, snickering at the halfhearted frown and thump Spencer gives his thigh before he settles in. Spencer keeps his eyes closed, and does his absolute best to keep himself from _thinking_ at all, and focuses instead on the rise and fall of Brendon's chest, the warmth of him, the gentle tug through his own hair, before he falls asleep.

 

"Spence."

Spencer frowns, and shifts.

" _Spencer_."

"God, _what_ ," Spencer hisses back, not opening his eyes.

"I think I know what story we're in," Brendon murmurs, close to his ear. Spencer's eyes fly open despite himself, and it takes him a few seconds to focus on anything other than the oddly comforting heat of Brendon's breath on his cheek, the way they're curled up underneath Brendon's gayass cloak together.

And then Spencer sees the other guy not ten feet from them, sitting cross-legged about _five feet above the floor_ , and he lets out a thoroughly undignified shriek.

"Hey," the guy says. Brendon's too busy giggling at Spencer to really respond, and Spencer's too busy trying _not to die from shock_ , so they all just stare sort of stupidly at each other for a few seconds.

"Um, hey," Brendon finally manages. And then he squints, and shifts a little closer, moving away from Spencer, who whimpers and curls the cloak up tighter around his shoulders - Brendon was letting in _cold air, damn it_. "Hey," he says, pursing his lips. "Aren't you - "

Spencer blinks. "Frank?"

The other guy - who is seriously, seriously Frank Iero, _seriously_ \- blinks back. "Huh?"

"You're not Frank?" It's not like Spencer or Brendon ever actually _hung out_ with the guy, just a two-second introduction at awards shows over the years, but seriously.

"Um."

"...You don't have a brother or something, named Frank?" Brendon asks, boggling.

"Not that I know of," Frank says, laughing lightly. "I mean, I guess there's always a chance or something, right?"

Spencer stares at the guy some more, watches him fidget uncomfortably. "...So, right, I hear you've got a problem with some straw?" the guy - who is seriously Frank, Spencer is just going to have to call him Frank to keep from going completely crazy - says. "Needing to turn it into gold?"

Brendon glances over at Spencer, who's still too busy staring suspiciously at all of Frank's tattoos. Eventually, he nudges Spence. "Uh? Oh, yeah, straw into gold. Yeah." Spencer goes back to staring at the tattoos - he's pretty sure he saw an episode of _LA Ink_ where Kat actually put that guy behind the drum set _on Frank's arm_.

"Well, it just so happens I can do that," Frank says, giving them both a self-satisfied little smirk, still hovering above them. Brendon gapes, but Spencer just looks (and feels) kind of annoyed.

"Are we talking about some sort of metaphor?" he asks, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow, not bothering to consider how _not-tough_ he looks curled up with his only remaining bandmate under a red and purple fur cloak. "Some dumbass economics joke that only you're in on?"

Frank blinks, and then sneers, raising an eyebrow back. "No, I'm talking about turning all this fucking hay into fucking gold coins, is what I'm talking about. But hey, sorry to insult you. I guess I'll just let you get to it so they don't cut your pretty little head off in the morning, cool?"

Wait. _Wait_. Spencer's head tilts up, and he stares at Frank more intently - he _knows_ this story. All of a sudden, he knows what they're doing. It's almost enough to make his head swim.

"No no! Not cool! Uncool! Opposite of cool!" Brendon interjects, waving his arms frantically, crawling up onto his knees. "He's just being a dick, we do seriously need your help."

"Dude, I know," Frank says, shrugging a shoulder, giving Brendon an almost-smile. "I was just fucking with you, don't worry." He hovers a little bit closer to the ground, and leans in, holding his hand out. Brendon pauses, and then breaks into a grin and reaches up to shake it. "Who the hell're you, anyway?" Frank asks.

"Oh. Brendon."

"What, the king?" Frank sits back and gives him a thoughtful look, and then laughs lightly, biting his lip, twisting the ring around. "The fuck are you doing here?"

"Long story."

"You're not _supposed_ to be here, y'know."

"Yeah, but." Brendon glances over at Spencer, and exhales before he turns back to Frank. "Okay, apparently I'm kind of an asshole sometimes? And I'm not just going to, y'know, tell somebody 'oh hey make me a lot of gold out of this straw' and then just abandon them to it all night. You know?" he asks, looking up at Frank sort of desperately.

"Yeah, there's such thing as manners," Frank says solemnly, nodding his head a little.

Spencer can't help it, he starts snickering. "Were you going to hold my hair back when they cut my head off?" he asks, turning to face Brendon. "Because that'd be the gentlemanly thing to do."

"It's true," Frank agrees, smirking a tiny tiny bit, the very ends of his mouth curling up.

Brendon stares at him for a second, then gives him a small smile and nudges his elbow into Spencer's side. "Don't fucking joke about that," he murmurs, the smile wavering before it disappears and Brendon just starts looking worried again. Spencer huddles a little closer. "Anyway, I'm staying."

Frank nods, and then slaps his knees once with both hands, coming down to rest on the floor with a soft _whump_. "Sweet. More the merrier." He brings his hands up and rubs them together, looking a little devious for a second before he smiles brightly. "So before we start, we have to settle on a price."

Brendon frowns, and curls up against Spencer a little more, almost protective. Spencer takes a second to be really amused (and sort of touched, whatever, it's such a _Brendon_ thing to do), and then gives Frank a narrow-eyed look. "What kind of price?"

"Well, the usual is your first-born son, but I'm thinking that's sort of out of the question what with you being a dude," Frank says, gesturing, "so I - "

"Wait, you can tell he's a dude?" Brendon says, shocked.

"Yeah," Frank says, giving Brendon a dubious look. "Wait, you _can't_?" He turns to give Spencer a baleful look. "What the hell kind of con are you trying to pull?"

"No, I know he's a guy. Jesus," Brendon says, gesturing frustratedly.

" _Awesome_ , someone who knows I have a dick," Spencer breathes fervently. "Fuck, Frank, you're my new favorite person. Whatever you want, it's yours."

"Oh really," Frank leers.

"Hey!" Brendon squawks, cowering at the questioning looks both of them give him after. "Nevermind."

"Well it can't just be, like. A new set of sheets or something, it's got to be something big," Frank muses, gazing at them contemplatively. Then he brightens. "Hey! Do you have pets?"

"What." Brendon glares at him.

"No, I'm awesome with animals!" Frank says, flailing, incredibly animated all of a sudden. "Seriously, we have like a _bond_ , it's fucking awesome. I have four dogs at home, and a cat! And a bird! Well, sometimes, it comes and goes. And a bunny!"

"I don't have any pets," Spencer says, frowning slightly, trying not to think about the dogs he lost in The Breakup. He can't help feeling guilty, though, at the way Frank visibly deflates by about six inches (and the guy is already short enough, those six inches are kind of crucial) at this news. "...Brendon does, though."

Brendon gasps and gives him this _et tu, Brute_ look, hand clutching the cloak up to his neck. "No I don't!" he says shrilly. "Totally don't!"

"Liar," Frank says, almost gleeful, scooting closer towards them. "No, seriously, dog or cat?"

"You're not taking my pet!" Brendon says, voice getting progressively louder and more freaked out. Spencer swallows against a rising tide of guilty nausea in his throat, and twines arms around his waist. "No, fuck _you_ ," Brendon snarls, struggling against him, "fucking selling Bogart _out_ , what the - "

"Bren, we know this one," Spencer murmurs, pressing his face into the crook of Brendon's neck, where Frank won't see his mouth and won't be able to overhear him. "I know this story. He won't get Bogart."

Brendon keeps struggling for a few seconds, then subsides, breathing hard and glaring at both of them, after Spencer pulls away enough to see him. "God. Fine," he scowls, folding his arms tight around his chest, hunching in on himself. "Seriously, though, fuck you. Get off me," he tells Spencer, shrugging away from him. "He's a dog, and his name is Bogart," he says to Frank, his voice going a little thick.

"Aw," Frank says, beaming. "Big or little?"

"...Little," Brendon says, shifting. "He's an Italian greyhound. So he's not, like. Tiny."

"No no, yeah, I get it," Frank says, and seriously, the guy is almost _bouncing_. Spencer's almost charmed. Or he would be, if he didn't know Brendon was almost vibrating with the urge to kill him. "All my dogs are really sweet, you don't need to worry. He'd totally get along with them, no problem."

"Great," Brendon says, flat, and after a tense few seconds, he sighs and slumps back against Spencer unexpectedly. "Well, if you're getting my dog, you'd better make damn sure this gold is good quality."

Frank snorts, and grins as he nods. "Fair enough. I'll get my stuff set up."

For some reason, Spencer's expecting a spinning wheel or a talking mirror, something fitting the general theme. What he's _not_ expecting is for Frank to magically produce a soft case from behind one of the many (many many many) haystacks and pull out a white acoustic guitar. Beside him, he feels Brendon go still and then lean forward, and Spencer glances over at him and yeah, there's the hungry look in Brendon's eyes he was expecting.

" _Nice_ ," Brendon says underneath his breath, watching intently as Frank grabs a pick and starts tuning, leaning his head down close to the guitar, his eyes closing in concentration.

"I'm assuming you're talking about my fine instrument here," Frank says, his teeth still clenched around the pick, not opening his eyes though he does smirk a little.

"The guitar's good too," Brendon quips, breaking into a quick smile, and Spencer's torn between feeling relieved that some of the tension is leaving Brendon's shoulders and feeling irritated with the flirting.

Whatever, the last thing he needs is for Brendon to decide that he wants to set up camp in a fucking fairy tale to better get to know a troll that happens to look like Frank Iero. He's got shit to do. He has many pressing engagements back home (nevermind that a lot of them involve Pete Wentz, which is pretty fucking depressing to consider). He has bills that need paying on a monthly basis.

Spencer scowls and hunches in on himself a little, tugging Brendon's fucking stupid cloak around his bare shoulders. He fiddles with his skirt, smoothing it out, and then pulls his knees up and tucks his chin on them, watching Frank lure Brendon away from his seat beside Spencer, over to sit cross-legged beside _him_.

"It's about a steady tempo," he can hear Frank explaining, his eyebrows knitting together as he runs through several phrases of a song that isn't familiar. Off to their left comes a soft whishing sound, and both Spencer and Brendon freeze for a second. "It's okay, that's the straw changing," Frank explains. "It won't actually do it where anyone's watching, which fucking sucks when you get down to the last little bit," he says, making a face. "I have to play the last fifteen minutes with my eyes closed, usually."

"Cool," Brendon breathes, his eyes wide and appreciative.

Spencer watches, pressing his cheek to the knob of his kneecap, rocking forward and back a little in time to the tune Frank's plucking out. Beside him, Brendon's gazing intently at the way Frank's fingers move over the strings, and Spencer's seen that look enough times to know that Brendon's trying to memorize the chord progression, trying to think of little flourishes to add. He glances down, and can't help smiling a tiny bit as he watches Brendon's fingers twitch in his lap, restless.

Finally Frank gives Brendon a turn, and Spencer can't help a snort at the gleeful handflail Brendon gives him, before he launches into the same tune Frank was playing.

Spencer could close his eyes, he's seen this particular scene play out a dozen times before. Someone offering Brendon a turn on their guitar (or their accordion. or violin, or kazoo, or drumset), expecting to have to walk him through the steps. It's always the same: the combination of horror and amusement on their faces when Brendon just...picks it up and runs with it.

Sometimes, Spencer thinks, living with Brendon Urie is like living in a modern-day telling of _Amadeus_.

"No, yeah, A Minor," Frank says, gesturing towards Brendon's fingers on the frets. "Like - yeah, that," he says, perching back on his knees, tapping one foot lightly, pleased.

Brendon nods and keeps going, darting a quick glance over to Spencer, giving him a small, private smile that Spencer tentatively returns. "My tunes are gold, Spencersmith."

"The tunes you just stole, you mean," Spencer points out, turning his head so he can prop his chin on his knee again. He gazes evenly at Brendon, still smiling crookedly, something in his chest swelling awkwardly as both he and Brendon settle into the stare, neither one of them looking away.

Brendon used to pull this during practices, this _Fast and the Furious_ shit where he would catch Spencer's eyes and keep them, both of them instantly locking into this stupid little competition to see who'd have to look down first to keep from flubbing his part of the song. They were generally pretty evenly matched, and a couple of times managed to get through an entire song like that, grinning at each other even as Ryan bitched them out after.

Brendon waggles his eyebrows and smirks provokingly, but Spencer just gives him a pitying smile in response and holds his gaze. It's not really a fair match, Spencer's not behind his kit after all. He blinks and bites at the corner of his lip absently, licking where the skin there is chapped and gross.

There's the twang and cross squawk of fingers slipping on strings, and Brendon grumbles a quiet _fuck_ as he actually looks down at his hand, frowning at its betrayal.

"Ha," Spencer smirks, trying to tamp down the way he can feel himself starting to blush. He looks away then too, pushing his hair back off his forehead, the room suddenly seeming a lot bigger and darker now that that moment is over. His eyes slide over to Frank, who's watching them with this bemused little smile on his face, his arms folded. Frank raises an eyebrow at Spencer, who blushes more and ducks his head, shifting back against the hay.

"Okay, we're all suitably impressed," Frank says, trying to sound annoyed and failing entirely as he makes grabby-hands towards his guitar. Brendon huffs and hands it back over, looking sort of awkward and twitchy as he watches Frank resume playing. He glances over at Spencer after a minute or two, rubbing the back of his neck and offering him a sheepish smile.

Spencer rolls his eyes and jerks his head towards the empty spot beside him, smiling a little as Brendon scurries back over and settles down beside him. "Stop hogging the cloak," Brendon complains, tugging the end of it loose from where Spencer had tucked it around himself and curling in close. "Come on."

"God, be more of a stereotypical baby of the family," Spencer grouses, for appearances only since he shifts and pulls the cloak free, throwing it over the acute angle of Brendon's knees and legs. "Stop whining," he orders, dropping his shoulder a little just as Brendon moves to rest his head there. He fusses a few seconds more, arranging the cloak, and then gives him a longsuffering look. "Good?"

"Yup," Brendon says, giving him a beatific smile before he closes his eyes. Spencer rolls his eyes and then looks over at where Frank is cheerfully running through chords. Somewhere behind them is the whooshing sound of hay sliding over itself, changing into gold. The sound picks up, til it's almost as steady as the music Frank's actually playing.

Spencer sighs softly, fighting to keep still since Brendon's still draped all over him, and tries to move his arm a little, get the prickles out of it. Brendon grumps and shifts, but doesn't open his eyes as he presses the cold tip of his nose against Spencer's neck.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably, not quite liking the beady look Frank's giving them all of a sudden. The arm he'd managed to work across Brendon's back squeezes a little, instinctive, and Spencer works up a halfhearted glare for him.

Frank raises a hand, a pacific gesture, and goes back to playing. "He asleep?" he asks a few minutes later, not looking up from the guitar.

Spencer looks down, barely managing to make out the sweep of Brendon's dark eyelashes. "Brendon?" he asks quietly. He doesn't get an answer, so he nods to Frank. "Guess so."

"All tuckered out," Frank says simply, giving Spencer an unreadable look from under his eyelashes before he goes back to concentrating on the guitar. "So."

Spencer leans his head back against the straw, shifting it around til pieces stop poking him quite so hard. "So."

"Two guys."

"Apparently," Spencer says, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. "But we didn't exactly know what we were getting into." He catches the amused expression Frank gives him at that, and hastily tacks on, "With the stories, I mean. ...Wait, shit, you know, right? About the stories? I mean, you know I'm not a girl, so I just figured - "

"Yeah, no, I know. The ones who are totally human don't, but most of us who are 'other' have some idea of what's going on," Frank assures him. "Given that I've gone through this exact same routine with quite a few people before."

"Ah," Spencer says. He can't think of anything to follow it up with, though, and goes silent and awkward.

"First time it's been two guys, though," Frank says conversationally, still looking down at the guitar, studious.

"Um."

"No, hey," Frank says, looking up, startling Spencer with the earnestness in his eyes. "It's cool. I - you can do that? Now?"

"Kind of?" Spencer replies, wincing when he realizes how unhelpful he must sound. Plus, Frank is staring at him with this really intense, almost desperate look in his eyes, and it's freaking him out a little bit. "It depends on where you live. In a lot of places, yeah, you can. In other places, still a big fat hell no."

"Huh." Frank goes back to playing the guitar, frowning. Spencer doesn't think it's entirely his imagination that Frank's strumming the strings a little bit harder, a little bit angrier than he was a minute ago. "But if some places allow it, eventually it'll be everywhere," he says practically, a few minutes later.

"Yeah, probably," Spencer agrees. He looks down at Brendon for a second and pushes a bit of straw away from his ear, then seems to recognize that whoa, hey, he's giving Frank _totally_ the wrong impression. "But it's - I mean, it's not like that with me and Brendon. We're just friends."

Frank raises an eyebrow and looks Spencer over for a second. Actually, he looks Spencer _and Brendon_ over, and then snorts. "Sure."

Spencer's cheeks flame. "No, seriously. He has a girlfriend."

Frank looks back up at that, his shoulders sinking a little as they gaze at each other for a second. "Dude," he murmurs, his voice full of sympathy.

"No, it's - " but suddenly Spencer really has no idea how to finish that sentence.

Okay, that's not true, he's finished that sentence half a dozen different ways to different people (Pete, Ryan, Shane). But for that one moment, Spencer's brain just...deserts him, and he finds himself unable to respond. His arm around Brendon tightens a little and Brendon mumbles something into his neck, and Spencer has to look away from Frank, quick and furious at himself. He concentrates really hard on a pile of straw about ten feet away.

"You're just really good at being a good friend, right?" Frank asks, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

Spencer takes a breath in, and holds it for two, three, four seconds. Then he lets it go. "Dude," he says, laughing a little, soundless, mirthless. "I am fucking _amazing_ at it, you don't even know."

"Yeah I do," Frank replies immediately, giving Spencer that intent look again. He breaks into a smile, one that's sort of brittle, hard-looking. "I didn't always do this. I wasn't always...y'know, _here_." He stares at Spencer for a moment, long enough to make Spencer sort of uncomfortable and twitchy, before he just sets his guitar down and scoots closer to the two of them, leaning towards Spencer and dropping his voice even lower. "I reminded mine about _anniversaries_ , okay? Anniversaries and birthdays and everything."

Spencer's eyes widen, locking with Frank's for a long moment before he exhales. "Shit, man," he manages.

"For real," Frank sighs, sitting back a little. "Fucking sucks." He reaches behind him, and picks the guitar up again, picking back up where he left off. "At least you're not at that point yet, right?"

"Nah," Spencer says.

"Just almost, right?" Frank asks, angling his guitar til it almost pokes Spencer in the arm.

"No, well," Spencer starts uncomfortably, shifting a little until Brendon grumbles in his sleep and Frank gives him an _I'm not fooled_ look. "...I just make sure his bills get paid and I balance his checkbook. And sometimes shop for groceries for him? I mean, otherwise he'd fucking starve or eat his own foot to survive, he's kind of an idiot." Spencer pauses for a minute, and swallows. "And we always go Christmas shopping together because he says I pick out the best presents for his parents."

"Oh my _god_ ," Frank hisses, his expression gleeful, schadenfreude just rolling off of him in waves. "Dude, that's so pathetic, it's fucking _awesome_ , holy shit. Fucking - Christmas presents, oh my _god_."

Spencer grins tiredly, resting his chin on Brendon's hair for a second. "Fuck you, now I'm not going to mention how one year I had to pick out a Valentine's Day present for a girl he was dating." He smirks, but otherwise doesn't respond as Frank dissolves into quiet, desperate giggles.

...It had been a really nice little ruby pendant necklace, what he'd picked out, but when it happened Spencer was nineteen and sad and not sure whether he liked boys or girls or both, so the whole experience had since taken on this feel of epic gloom and badness. What had happened was, he'd gone to some mall in Pittsburgh on tour while Ryan and Brendon were doing press, and he'd spent half of the two hours Zack had allotted him gazing miserably at cufflinks and watch fobs that Brendon would never think to buy for himself, or anyone else. Then he'd gone back to the bus, and gone to soundcheck, and after the show that evening, he'd wordlessly gone to TAI's bus and got absolutely shitfaced for the first time ever, so drunk that Beckett and Jon had to get him back to the right bus at the end of the evening. Ryan didn't talk to him for three days afterwards.

Spencer's smile fades as he remembers the way his eyes watered as he was puking into the bus toilet, the way Beckett patted his back and chuckled when Spencer swiped a hand over his eyes and cursed.

He rubs his eyes, and shuffles down a little, huddling under the cloak a bit more. He doesn't respond when Frank clucks his tongue and grabs his cloaked foot, giving it a squeeze.

"We few, we happy few," he quotes, giving Spencer a wry, lopsided smile. Eventually, Spence returns the smile.

"Look, don't get me wrong, Brendon's totally my best friend," he feels obliged to say. "And...y'know, as far as really shitty badly-thought-out crushes go, it's not terrible. He's pretty easy."

"Except for when he's not," Frank adds shrewdly, watching Spencer until he sighs and nods.

"Except for when he's not," he agrees. "...You didn't." He frowns, and gestures with his free hand. "I mean, I'm not." He huffs, exasperated with himself and with the confused look Frank is giving him. "You couldn't _tell_ , could you?"

"Oh." Frank laughs a little. "Nah. I mean, I knew what I was looking for, so."

"Okay," Spencer says, a little ashamed of how intensely relieved he is. "So," he says, trying not to let the silence get too awkward, "tell me about yours."

"Aw, god," Frank says, grimacing. "It was so long ago, seriously."

Spencer raises his eyebrows and gives Frank his least amused expression, and waits. He doesn't have to wait long.

"He was - he wasn't my _boss_ , but he was sort of. The guy with the plan?" Frank says finally, keeping his eyes focused on the guitar. "Just. Amazing, dude, seriously. His _brain_ , it was awesome."

"Yeah, you loved him for his brains," Spencer replies drily.

" _Some_ of us value that in a person," Frank says, gazing at Brendon pointedly, grinning at the way Spencer tucks him up closer, protective. "Anyway, who am I kidding, he was gorgeous. That was a lot of it." He snorts softly, plucking out a long, lingering note. "Stars in my fucking eyes, man."

"Did he ever figure it out?"

"I don't think so," Frank says, pursing his lips up for a second as he thinks about it. "I mean, I never told him. I was really good friends with his little brother - _yeah_ ," Frank says, shaking his head at the small hiss of sympathy Spencer gives. "Always liked a challenge, I guess."

"Obviously," Spencer agrees.

"Yeah," Frank sighs. "He was - yeah, anyway, it got to the point that I either had to leave or, y'know, jump on him. So I left." He pauses, his fingers stilling on the guitar strings. "He was so cool, seriously."

"Maybe you could go back," Spencer suggests, tentative. "For a visit?"

"Yeah, _no_ ," Frank laughs. "I'm good."

"No, really! You were friends with his little brother, you could - "

"Nah," Frank says, firm. "Sort of doubt he remembers me," he adds, looking sort of dejected.

"Yeah right," Spencer says, just as firm. "You should do it."

"Sure," Frank says idly, going back to playing music, obviously not taking Spencer's words to heart. Spencer sags back into the straw, frustrated. A long pause stretches out between them.

"I didn't mean - " Spencer starts, but then he's cut off by Frank's fingers suddenly slipping on the strings.

"Hey. _Hey_." His eyes are shining. "You'll run into him. He's - I don't know what order we're going in these days, but you'd know if you'd met him, seriously."

"Yeah?" Spencer says dubiously, not really sure where this is going.

"Yeah. So you could, like." Frank fumbles for words, gesturing frantically. "You could tell him hey? From me?"

"Well, yeah," Spencer says, sort of relieved that that's all Frank's asking. "Yeah, of course. What's his name?"

Frank winces, and looks down at the floor, his cheeks actually going pink. "...You'll know him when you see him."

Spencer blinks, and frowns. "Are you serious?"

"Dude, you totally will," Frank says, looking up, suddenly fierce. "He's sort of unmistakable, okay? Just - you'll know. And you can just say I said, y'know. Hey."

Spencer stares at him for a second, completely befuddled. "So, okay. Just to recap. I'm supposed to meet this guy, who I'll just _know_ is like, the love of your fucking life, but you're not going to tell me his name or any distinguishing features other than _he's really really cool_. And you want me to give him a metaphorical 'do you like me check yes or no' note for you."

"Yeah, pretty much. He has black hair?" Frank offers, giving Spencer a hopeful smile. "Well, mostly black. It's usually black. Except for when it's blond."

Spencer stares at him. "You are a very strange little man."

Frank's smile vanishes, and is quickly replaced with a petulant scowl. "Says the guy wearing a dress and _cuddling_ his best friend."

Spencer hates to admit it, but Frank does have a point, so he subsides. "Fine, okay, whatever. I will totally tell this possibly dark-haired but possibly blond one-hundred-percent cool guy of yours that you said hi. Good plan."

"Thanks," Frank says pleasantly. He gives Spencer a wide, cheesy grin and goes back to the guitar again. All around Spencer, the sift of morphing straw starts up again, and he watches Frank for a while, the rhythm of his fingers twisting over the strings. Despite the nap he took earlier, his eyelids are growing heavy - he supposes he's still trying to make up the sleep deficit from the Pea Incident.

"You miss him," he says finally, jaw cracking on a huge yawn on the last word. He stretches his legs and his back as much as he can, slouching back onto the straw, guiding Brendon's arm away from its awkward angle between them into a more comfortable drape across his own chest.

"Yeah," Frank says simply, not looking up.

"I'll bet he misses you," Spencer murmurs, one corner of his mouth quirking up tiredly, before he closes his eyes. Brendon is a warm, comfortable weight against his side, and Spencer can still smell traces of his shampoo, the fruity shit he bought one day just to make Spencer roll his eyes and ask why Brendon thought he needed more volume.

Spencer is hit by a wave of homesickness so hard it physically _hurts_. He wants their house, and Bogart, and Guitar Hero, and surfing. He wants to hear Brendon's fucking annoying alarm clock down the hall at ass o'clock in the morning. He wants _tacos_.

He settles for sighing, and pressing his cheek to the soft warmth of Brendon's hair, and listening to their breathing and Frank's guitar and the soft sound of straw shushing around them.

 

When he wakes, it's completely silent. Spencer winces at the light of the sun blaring in through the tiny windows, and wriggles down til the sun is out of his eyes. He's hot, skin tacky with sweat everywhere that the cloak or Brendon is draped over him.

"Mmf, fuck," Brendon groans, into his shoulder, turning his face away from the light too. "What time is it?"

"Oh here, let me check my convenient digital timepiece. I have no idea," Spencer grumbles, throwing an arm over his eyes, accidentally smacking Brendon in the back of the head. "Shit, sorry."

"Fucking...timepiece, what the fuck," Brendon mutters, snuffling against Spencer's skin for a second before he flops over and drapes Spencer's hand over his eyes. "Better."

"Mm?" Spencer stretches, back arching like a cat, popping in a couple of places before he settles back down and rubs his index finger in light, friendly circles against Brendon's temple, where he sometimes gets headaches. He snorts a tired, lazy laugh at Brendon's _oh yeah baby, right there, just like that_ , the way he tilts his head into Spencer's touch.

The sound of a throat clearing makes them both freeze. Spencer opens his eyes and moves his arm a fraction, and gazes warily up at Percy. A second later, Brendon tugs Spencer's hand away from his face and stares as well. "Oh. Hi," Brendon says, propping up on his elbows and blushing faintly. Spencer waves lazily, and then rearranges his arm back over his eyes and tries not to smirk.

"I trust you slept well, majesty." Spencer snorts, and doesn't have to move his arm to imagine quite clearly the unimpressed look he's sure the page is shooting them. Brendon halfway manages to move up into a sitting position, only elbowing Spencer in the gut once. "And may I be the first to offer my congratulations on your betrothal?"

That's enough to get Spencer to open his eyes and deal with the morning. He frowns and sits up, stretching his back out, wincing at a couple of sore places - and then he notices the total absence of straw in the room and the way it's been entirely replaced by gold.

Seriously, fuck barnyard versions of the Scrooge McDuck swimming vault, now it looks like the _real thing_. Spencer's mouth actually falls open, and he stares so much he almost misses Brendon grinning and thanking Percy and elbowing _him_ in the side.

"Uh? Oh. Yeah, thanks," Spencer says, distracted by how the sun keeps bending and reflecting off of every surface. "Holy shit."

"Yeah. Good job, Spence," Brendon says, elbowing him again, giving Spencer a significant look. His smile has faded, and Spencer blinks at him, still half-asleep, before he realizes oh, yeah, _he's_ supposed to have turned the straw into gold.

"Well, y'know. We all have our talents," Spencer says, shrugging a shoulder modestly.

"Saving lives, one day at a time," Brendon supplies, scratching his chin, sharing a private smirk with him. "Anyway, so." He slaps his hands down on his knees once, and looks up at Percy expectantly. "We're cool?"

"Ah, sorry?"

"Everything's taken care of? No beheadings or anything?"

"Oh." Percy looks relieved. "No, sire, no beheadings. Though I have taken the liberty of booking consultations with the local bakers, florists, social planners, and tailors for this morning."

Brendon blinks. "Uh."

"...For the _wedding_ , sire."

"Oh, right. Yeah, I. Sure. I'll be there," Brendon says dubiously, shooting Spencer a horrified look.

"Though I suppose if you wanted something more lavish, we could wait a bit, have a best-of-three scenario with the straw?" Percy muses, tapping the end of a short quill pen against his chin. "We could always use more gold."

Spencer opens his mouth to protest, because _seriously?_ but Brendon beats him to it. "Don't get greedy," he snaps, pushing himself to his feet. "Ugh, I need a shower, I feel like things are starting to _grow_ on me. And Froot Loops, _fuck_ , I want Froot Loops," he groans, looking back at Spencer dolefully.

"Cinnamon Toast Crunch," Spencer muses, rubbing his cheek. "I miss Cinnamon Toast Crunch."

"Er," Percy says, looking at one of them and then at the other, and then back again. "I'll...tell the staff to start heating water for a bath?"

"Awesome," Brendon says. He reaches down to give Spencer a hand up, helping him negotiate the floofy skirts. "We're right behind you." He gives Percy his best maddeningly placid smile, one that doesn't flicker until he's bowed his way out of the room. Then, Brendon turns and gives Spencer a sheepish look. "Sorry."

"Yeah, this ordering people around thing must be really hard for you," Spencer says kindly, stretching his arms above his head and then scratching the back of his neck. "Poor guy."

"Yeah, fuck y - " Brendon starts, smiling a little, but then Frank pops out from behind one wall of coins and scares both of them half to death.

"Hey! Oh - shit, sorry," he says, grimacing as Spencer grumbles and tries to pry out of Brendon's death grip on his arms. "Sorry, man."

"It's all right," Spencer tells him, finally shaking Brendon's hand off his arm, frowning as he inspects the red mark on his skin. "Thanks for not scaring the shit out of the servants." He pauses, and thinks for a minute. "And for, y'know, turning the straw into gold."

"Yeah, seriously," Brendon says, finally recovered enough from shock to speak. "This is pretty impressive." Frank waves away the praise.

"Nah, man. Nothing."

"Hey," Spencer says, "what happens when there's nobody like us around? Does everything just _stop_ , or - "

"We have a lot of down-time," Frank says simply, folding his arms and giving him a grin. "How d'you think I learned how to do this shit? I had a five-year apprenticeship with the last guy before he left and I inherited the whole thing."

"Sort of a Dread Pirate Roberts deal," Brendon says, nodding slowly.

Frank gives him a confused look, and then glances over at Spencer, who shrugs. "Okay," Frank says, noncommittal. "Anyway, so. I take it you're not going to make us go through two more nights of this, right?"

"Yeah, no, one's enough."

"Awesome. Swear to God, I'm developing carpal tunnel from this shit, it gets worse every time."

"You could take a break," Spencer says pointedly, raising an eyebrow at Frank. "Go on a road trip. I'll bet you've saved up some vacation hours."

Frank snorts. "Sure. Anyway, I'm just assuming here that King Brendon doesn't want to give up Bogart and that you guys have other places to be."

"I'm thinking it's about that time," Brendon agrees. "But thanks, for...y'know, being cool and letting me play your guitar and knowing Spencer has a dick."

"All in a day's work," Frank tells him, breaking into a grudgingly sweet smile as he elbows Brendon in the ribs. "Thanks for not being an asshole king," he says. Then he squawks and starts chuckling as Brendon scoffs and pulls him into a quick, tight hug, almost lifting him off his feet.

Spencer folds his arms tight around his chest, frowns down at his shoes for a second. "You could come with," he offers, wavering between being sort of excited for the next story and feeling sort of dejected at Frank getting left behind. "Y'know, tag along for the next few."

"I'm good," Frank says, reaching out to nudge Spencer's shin with one foot. "But I'm holding you to that thing," he says seriously.

"Thing?" Brendon asks.

"Yeah, I know," Spencer says, ignoring him, looking up at Frank, meeting his eyes and holding them. "I'll remember."

"Good." Frank gives him an unreadable look, then smiles a little. "So hey. Spence. I'll bet you your freedom and Brendon's dog that you can't tell me my name." The smile grows wider, mischievous, as Frank starts to shift his weight from one foot to the other.

Spencer can't help smiling back a little, his arms dropping to his sides. He can barely see Brendon hedging closer to him, til their arms are almost touching. "Okay seriously, you have a clone in another world and his name is Frank, but I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess - Rumpelstiltskin?"

"Oh no, oh no," Frank says, in a monotone that would almost impress Ryan (though he's still managing that cheerful, dangerous smile), "how did you ever guess. How dare you outwit me, blah blah blah, you vile harpy, I will have my revenge. Seriously, it was awesome meeting you guys, you take care of each other, okay?"

"Promise," Brendon says, reaching to put a hand just in the small of Spencer's back. Spencer totally ignores the smirk Frank gives him at that, and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"Well?"

"Stop pretending to be impatient," Frank advises him, just as his feet leave the ground and he starts to hover again. "You're not fooling anybody." He seems to level off at about three feet above the ground, and crosses his legs, sitting comfortably in mid-air. "Also, my name is actually Frank. I guess technically you won before we even started." He gives Spencer the biggest, cheesiest shit-eating grin ever, and beside him, Brendon snickers.

"Oh, fuck y - " Spencer starts, before Frank just pops out of existence, a little wisp of smoke where he used to be. "Whoa, did - " he starts again, turning to talk to Brendon, who's suddenly gone too. Spencer blinks at the place where Brendon was. "Oh," he says, and then the world drops away into a field of white.


	4. the third story

Brendon groans, and puts a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the white that's still filtering through. "Ow," he mutters, pressing his fingertips into his eyelids, rubbing hard. "What the fuck, seriously."

He's startled by a sudden whoop to his left, enough that he blinks his eyes halfway open, and squints. "Fucking _pants_ , baby!" Spencer's crowing, throwing both his arms up in victory. Brendon's eyes widen, and he quickly looks down at himself.

"Aw, _shit_."

"Yeah, that's right," Spencer says, positively _beaming_ at him, and fucking - Brendon can't stay annoyed at his tragic pink-and-pinafore combination, not when Spencer Smith is doing his very best smile. His lips quirk up of their own volition, and he can't help chuckling.

"Those aren't pants, dude, those are like. Lederhosen," he feels compelled to point out, waggling his eyebrows at Spencer's whole romper getup. "You look like you're going to start yodeling."

"Don't even care," Spencer replies, moving an arm down so he can inspect his cheek next. "Aw," he says, his smile fading a little as he encounters bare skin. Brendon can't help it, he knows he looks just as ridiculous and he knows it's mostly a reaction to the lack of sleep and the anxiety and the _fact that he's wearing a dress_ , but he starts laughing helplessly and can't stop.

"You look like one of those tacky-ass porcelain figurines," he wheezes, doubling up and waving a hand as he tries to make himself stop. He has to wipe his eyes, but the amused, fond look Spencer is giving him sends him into a new wave.

"Those are called _Hummels_ , douche. My mom has some," Spencer says, tilting his chin and obviously trying to look threatening. Brendon flips him off, and clutches his stomach, sort of relieved when his laughter finally runs out. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Brendon groans, grabbing onto Spencer's arm to help haul himself back into standing up straight. "Damn it."

"Can't even blame it on Red Bull," Spencer sighs, rubbing his back lightly. Brendon shivers a little at the completely alien feeling of Spencer's hand running over his bound ribs, and unconsciously leans back into his touch.

"I'll blame it on your yodeling pants," Brendon decides. "And my fucking _apron_ , what the fuck," he grouses, looking down at himself again, actually inspecting the ruffles and pink. "You never had to deal with a fucking apron." He scowls, and shoves his hands into the pockets on the front of the offending apron. "Oh, _what_ \- "

"Hmm?" Spencer's not really paying attention, he's busy inspecting the grove of trees in which they've found themselves, and the bag that's leaning against one treetrunk. "Hey, I think this is mine," he says, pleased, as he turns to face Brendon again.

"Spence," Brendon says, and whatever's in his eyes and voice makes Spencer _move_ , back to his side, in a couple of seconds. Brendon bites his lip and lets the handful of breadcrumbs he got from his pocket fall to the forest floor. He glances over his own shoulder, and then over Spencer's, and exhales raggedly when he sees birds pecking along the clearing.

"Oh," Spencer breathes next to him, turning his head to see the birds and the remains of the breadcrumb trail as well. "Well." He thinks for a minute. "At least in this one, we don't have to marry each other?"

 

Spencer's all for going back the way they came, following the mostly-eaten trail of breadcrumbs back to - and that's where his plan ends, because both Brendon and Spencer can't really remember how Hansel and Gretel _starts_ , other than they have an evil stepmom and their dad abandons them in the forest. Brendon, however, keeps pushing to just continue down the path. "We have to get through the story to get out of it," he points out. "And I would like to get home at, y'know, _some_ point."

"Well I dunno, maybe there's some...Secret Option C, or something," Spencer fumbles, flailing his hands around a little.

"Your plan is to find some sort of double-secret door," Brendon says flatly, raising both eyebrows at him. He's pretending not to notice how his hands have come up to rest on his hips. "So that we can get through a series of fairy tales without actually having to act them out."

"Look, as far as logic goes, I don't think we're in a position to really question _anything_ ," Spencer grumbles, folding his arms across his chest, giving Brendon a baleful look. "It could happen."

"Yeah, and the sky could be purple and I could be a talking tree and you could also turn into a twinkie," Brendon says, eyebrows still raised. "If we're going down this 'anything can happen' path of yours. And if you turn into a twinkie, Spencersmith, don't expect me not to eat you."

"That's what she said," Spencer mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face exasperatedly. "Look, I'm not going to turn into a twinkie."

"And there's not going to be a secret door," Brendon shoots back quickly. "You get your thing, I get mine," he says, gesturing a hand between them. "We'll go from there."

Spencer gapes. He looks startlingly like Bogart, when Bogart can't figure out where Brendon's just thrown his favorite chew toy and he suspects Brendon of faking him out. "That's...fuck no, there's no way those two are equal! I didn't agree to that!"

"So you're saying you'll turn into delicious foodstuffs?" Brendon asks, giving him a smile and blinking innocently.

Spencer stares at him for a moment, and closes his mouth and glares, his eyes narrowing into slits. "No, I'm not saying that. I'm saying that you should eat a bag of dicks, and that I'm holding you responsible when your way gets us killed. All right?"

"All right," Brendon agrees, with an easy smile. He grins when Spencer huffs and stomps down the path a little ways, and skip-hops after him, tugging the sash of his stupid pinafore away from a couple of brambles as they both head further into the forest.

 

"No way," Spencer says firmly, giving Brendon the kind of quelling look that never works, and only succeeds in making Brendon laugh at him.

"Yes way," Brendon responds cheerfully, turning around so he can talk and walk and see Spencer at the same time.

"Patrick is _not_ a Slytherin," Spencer says. "He's like an archetypical Hufflepuff, come on."

"Don't think your SAT word is going to save you," Brendon tells him kindly, shaking his head a little. "I'm telling you, he's totally a stealth Slytherin. He gets shit done on his own terms."

"You're going to fall," Spencer tells him, tilting his chin, folding his arms. "And I'm going to laugh my ass off."

"No you're not, you're going to fuss over me and bitch about how I need to look where I'm going," Brendon sighed, giving him his best _who-do-you-think-you're-fooling?_ kind of look. It must be pretty impressive, because Brendon watches a slow tide of pink rise up Spencer's neck, to his ears and cheeks. He suddenly can't stop grinning.

Which is, of course, the moment he trips over a tree root, and goes careening backwards. His arms windmill out, and Brendon lets out a shrill yelp, his stomach somersaulting as he falls.

To his credit, Spencer does dive forward and try to catch him. The problem is, he only manages to grab one of Brendon's arms as he's falling, which just twists Brendon around, wrenching his elbow and his side and only _one_ of his legs. "Shit," he hears Spencer hiss, just before he feels a weird, sick _crunch_ in his ankle.

"Oh," he manages, feeling gutpunched, the wind knocked out of him. Brendon looks down, and barely manages to process the way his foot doesn't normally turn like that, before Spencer's hovering over him, tilting Brendon's face up with his hands, worry written all over his face. "Don't tell me I told you so," Brendon gasps, squeezing his eyes shut at the end of the sentence as the first sparks of hot pain start shooting up his leg.

"No, hey," he can feel Spencer whispering, somewhere near his ear. "M'sorry, Bren, I was just trying to help."

"It's okay," he mumbles back, trying to shift off of whatever rock is currently digging into his ass. His ankle _really_ doesn't like that, though, and Brendon can't help the little hiss he makes. "Ow. Fuck, seriously, _ow_."

"Where is it?" Spencer asks, and even though his eyes are still closed and Brendon's trying his best not to focus on _anything_ to do with his body right now, he can still sort of tangentially feel Spencer's hands brushing his hair off his face, smoothing down his arms.

"Ankle," Brendon manages, biting his lip and swallowing hard as the pain ratchets up. "Oh. Fuck, Spence, it crunched, it's - fuck."

"Okay," Spencer says quickly, moving his hands down to Brendon's leg, touching down towards where all the hot and pain is coming from. Brendon knows Spencer's being careful, he _trusts_ Spencer, but all the same, he can't help whimpering a little as Spencer's hands get closer to his ankle. "No, hey," Spencer whispers. "I'm only going to move the root you tripped over, okay? Hardly going to touch you."

"Okay," Brendon whimpers, unable to stop himself from clutching at Spencer's shoulder, though he does manage to open his eyes. He's still chewing on his lip nervously.

"So Gabe texted me a couple of nights ago," Spencer says, conversational, looking down at Brendon's foot, cupping one hand over his elbow and rubbing lightly. "He says he's going to make Pete get a tattoo of Tweety Bird."

"Nuh-uh," Brendon rasps, laughing breathlessly.

"Said he gave Pete a choice, either that or his face." Spencer glances up, holds Brendon's eyes for a few seconds. Brendon blinks, barely has a chance to think _blue_ to himself, before Spencer's interrupting him. "Deep breath for me."

Brendon obeys, sucking in a huge breath and closing his eyes, clenching his teeth tight. There's a slight jarring that slices along his leg and up his back, but after that, the pressure on his leg that the root had been exerting is gone. He exhales, slowly. "Okay," he says, giving Spencer's arm (the one he's been clutching) a pat. "Thanks."

"Yeah, no problem," Spencer says, shifting to sit up a little, maneuvering them both so that Brendon's leg is out straight in front of him. He sucks in a breath as he looks down, and winces. "It's swollen."

"My ankle and your head, a match made in heaven," Brendon says mournfully, resting his temple on Spencer's shoulder. "What the fuck do we do now?" He can feel the rise and fall of Spencer's chest beside him and he halfheartedly wishes he could just burrow in and close his increasingly heavy eyelids, he's had enough excitement for one day.

"Don't go to sleep," Spencer orders, pulling him back, squeezing Brendon's shoulder almost painfully. "You might be in shock or something, I don't know."

"Fuck shock, m'not in _shock_ ," Brendon protests, giving him his best petulant expression. Spencer just returns it with the sort of unamused look Brendon knows not to fuck with, so Brendon sighs and kicks his good leg out a little. "Seriously, what do we - "

"What, the one time you _aren't_ jumping all over everyone, you just forget piggyback rides exist?" Spencer asks, and he's only pretending to be exasperated, Brendon can _tell_. The two of them share a grin, and then Brendon's poking and pushing at Spencer almost cheerfully, for all his ankle is still really throbbing.

"Come on, get up. Help _me_ get up. And you have to take pictures, I'm not letting you forget the time you actually suggested giving me a piggyback ride. I need them for posterity."

"Okay, I'll make sure to take awesome pictures on my camera that doesn't exist, of your mangled foot. Because I know otherwise we'll both be liable to forget this ever happened," Spencer says drily, hopping to his feet and reaching both hands down to help Brendon figure out how to stand up without jogging his foot against anything (or himself). It takes them a couple of minutes, but they mostly manage. Brendon only yelps once or twice, which. Hey. Considering it's _them_ , he'll qualify that as a success.

 

Once they actually manage to get situated (the skirt of the dress creates unforeseen problems with piggyback rides, and once, Spencer accidentally runs Brendon's shoulder into a tree), the trip through the forest is almost pleasant. Brendon's really glad he bullied Spencer into going surfing so much, otherwise he's pretty sure he would've been dumped on his ass by now. His ankle has settled into a throb that's making him a little light-headed and to be honest, the constant jarring of movement isn't helping, but Brendon's pretty sure he can power through it.

After about an eighth of a mile, the path through the forest widens and smooths out a little, cutting a swath through the dense underbrush and the tall trees. The foliage is starting to get thicker, denser; there's less sunlight filtering through the branches. Brendon shifts a little, squeezing his arms tighter on top of Spencer's shoulders, and he props his chin in the crook of Spence's neck comfortably, starting to hum Santeria to the rhythm of Spencer's footsteps.

He can feel the tiny laugh Spencer gives, underneath where his own hands are clasped tight on his chest. For a few seconds, Brendon closes his eyes and lets himself feel the cool air underneath the canopy of leaves, the dappled light skimming over his eyelids. His leg feels tight and hot, still, and it _hurts_ , but Spencer's being careful and he's singing along under his breath, _what I really wanna say, I can't define_.

Brendon swallows down his heart, and the way it's trying to bubble out of him suddenly, and squeezes his arms around Spencer's shoulders a little, pressing his face in against the warm skin of his neck. Spencer's steps falter, and he comes to a stop at the top of a hill.

"Okay?" he asks, quiet, and Brendon can feel him turning his head as much as he can, trying to get a look down. He inhales, exhales slowly, and picks his head up, giving Spence a crooked smile.

"Kinda achy," he admits. "I know I'm heavy, too."

Spencer rolls his eyes, and winces as he shifts Brendon higher up on his back, tightening his hold, simultaneously proving Brendon's point. "Well, we can't just stop," he grumbles, squinting against the sun, sweeping his gaze over the forest in the little valley below. "Look, there's a house with a chimney or something down there," he says, nodding to a point not far off. down in the shadows of the valley. Brendon can barely see a wisp of smoke curling up over the treetops. "Maybe they'll let us stop there for a little bit."

"Yeah, that sounds likely," Brendon frowns, but he's not really in a position to argue. He presses his cheek to Spencer's shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut as Spencer hitches him up again and starts to pick his way down the hill. It's slower going than it was to come up the hill, and Brendon keeps his eyes closed for most of it, trying to keep still and stable to help Spencer out.

Eventually, the ground levels off. Spencer's cheeks are bright red, and Brendon can feel his breathing going stuttery as Spence pretends he's not trying to suck in huge, silent gasps of air. "Seriously, put me down. I can lean against you and hop."

"Dont be stupid," Spencer wheezes, taking a deep breath and hitching Brendon up. "We're almost there."

And Spencer's usually-flawless internal GPS works even in Fairytale Land, it seems, because two minutes and a curve around a copse of trees later, they're standing about thirty feet in front of a small cottage. "Lemme down," Brendon says immediately (seriously, there's a squeak down deep in Spencer's lungs, he can _hear_ it). He starts squirming as soon as he can, trying to make himself as annoying as possible before Spencer kills himself.

Grumbling, Spencer crouches and lets him slide off, reaching a hand back to steady Brendon as he balances on one leg. "Got it?" he asks, turning around to check Brendon over, hands on his shoulders. "How does your..." but he trails off, squinting at the cottage behind them. "Weird."

Brendon raises both eyebrows, and eventually manages to hobble himself into looking the same way. "Whoa," he says, breaking into almost-silent laughter a few seconds later. "Dude, I thought this was supposed to be, like. Candy."

"Are those _bags_ of coffee beans, seriously?" Spencer asks, pointing to the bottom of the cottage. "They look like sandbags."

"And cartons of cigarettes," Brendon points out, gesturing to the "siding" of the cottage. "Dude, the hell kind of fairytale is this? Is it sponsored by Philip Morris?"

Spencer laughs a little, making sure Brendon's not wobbly before he moves closer to get a better look. "Yeah, coffee and cigarettes and - I think the windows are made out of old bottles."

"Wow. That's pretty fucked up," Brendon says, frowning, fidgeting with his clothes a little now that he's still and mostly standing.

"Yeah, it's..."

Brendon glances up from where he's been fussing with his sleeves, trying to tear them off, and watches Spencer's eyes widen at something over his shoulder. "Spence?" he asks, his stomach just beginning to drop when he feels a touch against his shoulder.

Suddenly he's weightless, being thrown through the air, away from Spencer. There's the _crack_ of his body hitting a solid tree, and Brendon hears more than feels the way his head hits it, the way his body slides down.

There's a sensation of hot, then cold, then _ow_ starting to rush through him as he watches - _something_ , something dark and made entirely of shadow - stalk over to Spencer and loom over him. Brendon watches, and finally manages to take a breath as he sees Spence try to run to him, but then the shadow curls around him and pulls him in, and Brendon can't see him anymore.

"Shit," Brendon manages weakly, trying to make himself sit up. He's pretty sure that pain in his chest means some of his ribs are cracked, but he can still _feel_ everything, which he thinks might be a good sign? "Spence!" he calls, voice cracked and broken. "Spence?"

The shadow reappears, not five feet from where Brendon is crumpled up, and Brendon tries to back away but of course there's a _tree_ in the way. "Fuck you, what'd you do to him?" Brendon asks, trying to inject some anger in his voice, to counterbalance the fear. "Stay the fuck away from me," he snarls.

At that, the shadow pauses, and then swoops forward. Brendon sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, but a few seconds later he's still aware of the sounds of the forest around him, and he peeks his eyes open again.

Somewhere in the middle of the shadow, a face appears, as if it's just pushed off a hood, haloed by unruly black hair. Brendon gapes, and squints - something about the face is familiar, but he can barely make it out, given the dark surrounding it.

"How'm'I supposed to _tell_ you where he is if I'm supposed to stay the fuck away from you?" the face says, throwing Brendon's words back at him.

Brendon narrows his eyes. "Oh, yeah, it's easy, you just _fuck yourself_ until the answer magically comes to you," he snaps, light-headed with pain and reckless because of it. "What sort of dumbass Snape costume is that supposed to be, by the way?"

The face looks down at the darkness cloaking it, and there's a ripple in the shadows that almost looks like a shrug. "It was on sale," the magical floating head tells him, before its mouth screws up in an almost regretful frown. "Sorry about this, but I can't have you being uncooperative," it says.

"Go to - " Brendon starts, but then what appears to be a foot kicks out of the bottom of the shadows, hitting directly against Brendon's busted ankle. He makes a strangled, gasping sound, and doesn't even have time to throw whatever it was a hateful look before white-hot pain is firing in every single part of his body and his brain. He can feel his eyes roll back into his head, and honestly, it's almost a _relief_ when oblivion rushes up to claim him.

 

He wakes up in fits and spurts of consciousness - first, there's the glow of candlelight near his face, warm and soft behind his eyelids. Then, sometime later, Brendon hears Spencer's voice, garbled and angry and far away. He almost opens his eyes when he feels the press of a cold cloth against his forehead, and then - minutes, hours later, he really doesn't have a clue - he finally manages to blink his eyes halfway open. "Spence?"

"Hey," comes his answer, immediately. Brendon closes his eyes and exhales the breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Hey," he croaks back, and starts to sit up.

"No, don't - " Spencer starts, but Brendon waves an impatient hand at him. He's - huh, except for the headache he can feel forming behind his eyebrows, he's actually not feeling too bad. He forces his eyes wide for a few seconds, until he makes sure they'll stay open and he won't fall asleep again, and then he looks down at his leg curiously.

It's bound, wrapped tight in what looks like a makeshift splint from two pieces of wood and a checked scarf. Brendon blinks, and then twists his knee first left and then right, examining the handiwork, sort of marveling at how he can't feel his heartbeat in his foot anymore. "Hey. Neat," he says, turning to grin at Spencer.

Who's fucking locked in a fucking cage.

"Yeah, _neat_ ," Spencer says, dry as sand, giving Brendon a halfhearted little wave from the other side of the bars. "Feeling better?"

"Um." Brendon bites his lip, suddenly feeling weirdly _guilty_ about how the answer to that question is obviously _yes_ , when Spencer's, y'know, trapped in a cage like a un-housebroken puppy.

"Seriously, are you?" comes an unfamiliar voice to his left. Brendon turns his head, and yelps - there, about eight inches away from his face, is the same face he saw just before he passed out.

" _Shit_ ," he gasps, rearing back and trying to crawl away, off the thin pallet he's stretched out on. "That was _you_! You fucking kicked my leg!"

"Oh." The guy - who looks familiar, what the fuck - gives him an apologetic look and picks at the fraying end of the pallet seam. "Yeah, I. Fuck, man, I'm really sorry about that, I just, y'know, I'm no good at fighting, so I thought that'd be the easiest way."

"Easiest way to _what_ , make me black out?" Brendon snaps. If he can put some more distance between himself and the psychopath on the other side of the pallet, he's pretty sure he can use the bars of Spencer's cage to pull himself up, and then - then he'll think of something.

"Well, yeah," the guy says, screwing his mouth up again. "I mean, I had to fix your ankle _somehow_ , right?"

 _Oh._ "Oh," Brendon says stupidly, pausing in his attempts to get away. He frowns, eyebrows furrowing as he gives the guy a glare. "Well. ...Thanks," he says lamely. Then he scowls again. "Why's Spencer in a cage?"

"Yeah, why's Spencer in a cage?" Spencer echoes, leaning back against the bars, crossing his arms.

"You _know_ why you're in a cage," the guy snaps, folding his arms as well, giving them both a glare that has Brendon sort of impressed. He's only seen that level of grumpiness in an expression achieved by Spencer himself, three months into a tour with no clean laundry and one of his favorite godawful shoes missing. "You kept fucking trying to attack me while I was healing his ankle."

"What? Spence!" Brendon turns his scowl on _everything in the world_.

"I didn't know he was trying to fix your ankle! Jesus!" Spencer protests, giving Brendon a sort of wounded look. Brendon tsks, and can't help squirming over to the edge of the cage, stretching his fingers through the cage apologetically. Spencer pouts for a few more seconds, then grudgingly stretches an arm out so he can grab the tips of Brendon's fingers and give them a squeeze. "He was hovering over you like an overgrown bat, what was I supposed to do?" Brendon shuffles closer and wishes like hell that Spencer's cage wasn't there; there are few things that get him worried and mother-hen-ish, but Spencer's sad voice does it every time.

"Overgrown bat, I like that," the guy says, drawing their attention away from each other, back to him. "I should totally try to incorporate that. Put some rebar in the cloak, you know?" he says, gesturing his hand expansively, talking mostly to himself. He glances up, and frowns - apparently the looks Brendon and Spencer are giving him aren't exactly encouraging. "For wings." He huffs and sits back, leaning against a cigarette-carton wall. "Fuck you, I could be like - like an _antihero_ and shit. The moral ambiguity would be really compelling, okay?"

"Yeah, and really original," Brendon hears Spencer mutter. He rolls his eyes and digs his nails into the meat of Spencer's palm. "Ow, mother _fucker_."

"Don't antagonize the guy who has you in a cage," Brendon hisses, giving the guy a tight smile, even as Spencer squeezes his fingers _hard_ , the dick. He tugs his hand away, and watches, befuddles, as the man's hair slowly morphs from an unruly mop of black into short, sleek white.

Somewhere in his head a penny finally drops, and Brendon starts giggling. "Oh, shit."

"Hmm?" the guy looks up, and gives Brendon a quizzical look.

"Nothing." But Brendon can't help himself. "I don't know about that bat thing, what about instead, you're the grand master for a really twisted, black _parade_?" Behind him, Spencer chokes, and starts to laugh. "That'd be an awesome costume."

The guy - who is totally Gerard fucking Way, what the actual fuck - tilts his head a little and seems to consider the idea for a second, before scoffing. "Nah, that's kind of overwrought."

"Oh." Brendon's a little bit worried his head's in danger of exploding; behind him, it sounds like Spencer's quietly dying from trying not to dissolve into laughter. "Yeah, it could get kind of over-the-top."

"Yeah, _exactly_ ," Gerard says, his black roots starting to show through his hair again as he points a finger eagerly at Brendon. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I totally appreciate that whole macabre musical theater aesthetic - I apprenticed to this painter who worked on sets for the opera in the city - but. Yeah, I need something with more authenticity, you know? More dark alleys and grittiness and, and _real_."

"I can see where giving yourself bat wings would help with the authenticity," Spencer says politely. Brendon is going to _kill_ him, but Gerard seems to take the words at face value (it does, Brendon will admit, take a minute to realize when Spencer's being a genuinely nice guy and when he is being a total dick. He tends to smile when he's both, which Brendon thinks is cheating). He beams at Spencer, and nods enthusiastically. "I'm Spencer, by the way," Spencer adds a moment later.

"Oh, hi, yeah, sorry. Gerard," Gerard says predictably, giving him a little wave. He turns and gives Brendon a sort of expectant look.

"Brendon," he supplies.

"Hi, Brendon. Um, sorry about your ankle, again."

"Don't worry about it, it feels a lot better." Brendon's brain hurts, and he rubs his forehead - it doesn't really help, but it does give him a few seconds of respite to try to figure out how to get Gerard Way the Fairy Tale Batman to help him and Spencer in their trip home. "Okay. Getting back to the subject at hand, I totally agree that bat wings are fucking awesome and you should get some of those grappling bat-hooks too, but won't that confuse the point of the part you're working now?" he asks. "You live in a cottage in the woods. It's made out of coffee beans and cancer."

"I guess you have a point," Gerard concedes after thinking about it for a few seconds, grudging. "But _bat wings_ , dude."

"Yeah, I know." Brendon sighs, and rubs his hands over his thighs, smoothing out his skirt - huh, he'd almost forgotten about that. "Just."

"I think what Brendon's trying to ask you," Spencer puts in, in a helpful tone of voice that Brendon does not trust _at all_ , "is what's your motivation?"

Gerard's lips purse up as he thinks about it, and he pushes his (long, unfortunately reddish-purple) hair out of his face. It settles into really unfortunate peaks on top of his head, but he doesn't seem to mind - he starts going through nooks and crannies of his huge cloak until he manages to produce a squashed pack of cigarettes. "It's like," he says, shaking one out of the pack and then offering it in their direction (Spencer reaches through the bars to smack Brendon's hand as he leans forward to take one), "okay, when I originally took the gig, I thought _oh hey awesome, subverting gender and stereotypes_ and shit, but it's turned out to be kind of lame. The kids who come through expect me to have, like, a wart on the end of my nose and ride a broomstick, right? And they all try to shove me into my oven. Which is total bullshit and just plays into all these expectations that really powerful women have to be crazy and ugly and ultimately put down, for the greater good, or some shit. I'unno, it's all fucked up. Basically I took the job because Mikey was tired of me moving around all the time."

Brendon turns and mouths _the brother_ to Spencer, who looks marginally less confused after a second. Then, he turns back to Gerard and tries to look appropriately sympathetic. "That sucks, man."

"Tell me about it. And now Mikey's fucked off to live with Alicia, who lives in a _shoe_ , and I'm here in this fucking cottage putting people in cages and trying to fatten them up and they keep trying to cook me."

Spencer makes a small, strangled noise, and Brendon can't turn around and look at him or else he knows he'll lose his shit. He swallows the hysterical laugh that's bubbling in his throat, and nods. "So - okay, we promise we won't try to cook you?" he offers, tentative.

"Thanks," Gerard says, breaking into that weirdly sweet smile again, looking actually _touched_ by the offer. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Brendon's going through one of his vegetarian periods anyway," Spencer says, his voice only slightly strained. "Plus you're too skinny and stringy, it'd be wasted effort."

Gerard's eyes practically _shine_ with love. "Spencer, you are my favorite," he says, his hair back to its original black and glossy and completely unkempt. His cloak - which, Brendon realizes belatedly, isn't so much a cloak as it is a very very enthusiastic hoodie, snakes around the floor, rippling in a draft of air that none of the rest of them can feel.

"So!" Brendon can't help it, he's starting to giggle. "Okay, now that you know we're not going to cook you, what do we have to do to get through this one?" He blinks, and then risks a glance back to Spencer, suddenly worried he's crossed some invisible line. "I mean...Frank knew about the stories, I thought maybe - "

"Frank?" Gerard sits up, tense and alert and no less keen. "You know Frank?"

"Yeah, he was - "

"Short and talks really fast and lots of tattoos?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh." There's a bit of Gerard's hair at the crown of his head that starts to morph into blond, and then red. Brendon blinks, and then stares, watching as the tops of Gerard's cheeks start to go a little pink. "Oh, um. How's he doing?"

"He." Brendon pauses, confused. "Well, he seems like he's fine. We didn't - "

"He says hi," Spencer cuts in. Brendon wriggles around enough to raises his eyebrows at Spencer, who doesn't even _notice_ , he's giving Gerard this really intense look. "He talked about you."

"He did?" Brendon asks, just as surprised as Gerard obviously is, from the way his head snaps up and he gazes at Spencer hopefully. They both stare at Spencer for a few seconds, until Spencer starts fidgeting uncomfortably and gazes down at his lap.

"Yeah, we - Frank and I started talking after you fell asleep," he says, in Brendon's general direction. He raises his head up, and looks straight at Gerard, eyes locking onto his. "He misses you a hell of a lot."

" _Me_?" Gerard squeaks, the blush spreading from just his cheeks to all over his face. It's sort of sweet, Brendon thinks. "Dude, I don't - he misses _me_?"

"Yeah. Well, and your brother."

"See, yeah, he was really good friends with Mikey, he's just...really friendly. To everybody. Especially animals, he loves animals, it's really cute." Gerard's shoulders slump a little, as he obviously tries to talk himself out of being excited to talk about Frank. "I can't believe you saw him, that's awesome. Did he look okay? Like, happy?"

Brendon glances over when there's a pause, and watches Spencer consider the question. "I don't think he's _un_ happy, but he isn't in love with his life or anything," Spencer says carefully.

"Huh. So he's not - it's just him, still?" Brendon ducks his head to make sure Gerard can't see his grin at that, at his complete _failure_ at being subtle.

"Yeah, he's single," Spencer says, dry, not bothering to hide his smirk as Gerard winces and flails a little.

"No, I just! I figured!" he protests, pushing his hair away from his face. "He's a really nice guy, I figured he'd have settled down or something!"

"No," Spencer says, firmly, not letting Gerard explain his way out. "I think he's waiting for that part. He very specifically misses _you_." His hands have both slid up to grip the bars of the cage tight, framing his face, the way it's leaning forward til it's almost pressed against them. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that," he admits, pressing his cheek to his hand, still gazing intently at Gerard.

"Oh," Gerard says, getting quiet. His hands flap around for a few seconds before one finally settles at his face, cupping his cheek nervously, fingertips drumming over his lips before they start to curl into a small, private smile. "Oh," he breathes.

Brendon's _heart_. He hunches in a little and presses a hand to it, hard, suddenly feeling like something's squeezing the breath out of him as he watches Gerard's face suffuse with this happy glow. He remembers seeing that look a handful of times, on Regan's face while she watches Shane work, in his element; on his father's face during Christmases when he was little, when all his siblings were back home, their entire family together. That look of quiet joy that he can't really remember feeling, ever.

"Look," Spencer says, speaking low, so that Gerard has to scoot closer to the cage and even Brendon finds himself leaning back to hear better, "you don't want to be here anymore. He thinks you don't even remember him. Just...help us get through to the next story, and then _go find him_. If just to catch up."

"You two could have your own story where you get to wear bat wings," Brendon supplies, helpful. He and Gerard exchange grins, and Gerard hunches over onto himself for a second, chin propped in his hand still as he balances his elbow on his knee. Then, he nods slightly.

"Okay. I mean - yeah, no, okay. I have to take control of my destiny," he says, completely unironically, frowning at himself. Brendon's a little bit afraid Gerard's going to break into a really terrifying version of _Don't Rain On My Parade_ or something.

He carefully moves into a crouch. "Awesome," he says, clapping his hands together once, taking over for Spencer, who's busy beaming at them like an idiot. "Okay, what do we need to do?"

Gerard takes a minute to snap out of his daze, but when he does, he switches into strictly-business with a vengeance. "Well, somebody's gotta be in the cage and I'm supposed to be force-feeding you but I hate that part and I don't really have any food. And somebody's gotta clean the cottage." He catches the twin dubious looks Brendon and Spencer are giving him, and shrugs a shoulder. "Look, it wasn't _my_ idea. I didn't say it was exciting, getting out."

"Okay," Brendon sighs. "Well, can we take turns? Because I don't want to re-break my ankle from cleaning."

"Yeah, sure," Gerard says, cheerfully compliant. "Hey, speaking of, are you guys hungry? I have...um, coffee, and I think I have some noodles or something."

"Coffee," Brendon breathes, eyes lighting up. "I like coffee."

"Then I like _you_ ," Gerard says, standing up. "Who's doing what?"

"I'm cleaning," Spencer says immediately, wincing as he tries to stretch his arms out behind his back, in the cage. "And Brendon should eat something, you don't want him hopped up on caffeine in a contained area."

"Fuck you," Brendon suggests cheerfully, reaching through the bars to try to grab a part of Spencer to pinch, not even minding when Spencer successfully eludes him. "C'mere."

"Okay," Gerard says, already in the - well, what passes for a kitchen in the cottage, which appears to be a primitive washing-up area, a stove, and a very large oven. He's clanking a couple of pots around. "The well's out back, I'll need some water for boiling. And for cleaning."

He doesn't even turn _around_ , but suddenly there's a small pop, and the cage around Spencer has vanished. And reappeared around Brendon, who's still stretching to try to reach Spencer, though now from the other side of the bars. " _Hey_ ," Brendon squawks, jerking his arm back in, looking around at the cage in alarm.

"Hey, cool," Spencer says, giving Brendon a smirk and standing up, stretching luxuriously, hands above his head. There's a small slip of pale skin showing, where his shirt's come untucked from his pants, and Brendon looks away, feeling his cheeks heat through a little.

"I'm kind of magic," Gerard reminds them, frowning as he inspects an open bag of coffee beans, and then pours some into a mortar. He reaches for the pestle on the windowsill, and starts grinding. "Will you go get the water? The bucket's beside the door."

Spencer looks dubious, but goes to fetch the bucket, and Brendon can see the relief on his face when it turns out to be clean. "Okay, I'll be back."

"Don't fall in!" Brendon calls after him, grinning when Spencer flips him off and shuts the cottage door behind him. He settles back against the bars of the cage, and winces as he shifts into a position approaching uncomfortable. His ankle is starting to pang again, but nothing like it was, and he watches Gerard putter around the kitchen, with interest. "What kind of noodles?"

Gerard glances back, and gives him a halfhearted shrug, holding up a cardboard box. "Thin ones. I think I have some stuff we can put on them, Alicia always makes Mikey bring stuff when he visits."

"That's good," Brendon says, for lack of anything better. He bites his lip, and folds his arms loosely over his chest. "My ankle's starting to hurt again. I don't know what you did last time, but."

"Oh. No, I'm glad you told me, hang on." Gerard grumbles at the ancient teapot he's messing with, and finally huffs and snaps his fingers. A small curl of steam suddenly rises from the spout, and he gives Brendon a sheepish look as he grabs two mugs and comes over to the cage. "Instant doesn't taste the same, but it's so much fucking easier," he explains, snaking one mug in between the bars of the cage for Brendon.

"Thanks," he says, both eyebrows shooting up as it fills up, seemingly of its own volition, with hot black coffee. "Um. Do you have sugar or milk or anything?"

One corner of Gerard's mouth lifts in an amused smile, and the liquid in the cup goes creamy and light.

"Now you're just showing off," Brendon grumps, but he picks the mug up and takes a long sip, his eyes closing. "Oh my god, coffee," he breathes reverently. "I missed you," he tells the mug, curling his fingers around it. "If loving you is wrong, I don't wanna be right."

Gerard snorts, and shuffles closer, reaching in and tugging Brendon's foot over til it's pressed against the bars. Brendon winces, and yelps a little when Gerard squeezes, and comforts himself with another long swallow of the sugary, fucking _perfect_ coffee. "Don't be a baby," Gerard mutters, biting his lip and pushing his hair out of his eyes frustratedly as he moves Brendon's skirt out of the way.

"Don't look up my dress," Brendon counters, fidgeting just to be an asshole. Then there are cold fingertips on his calf and Brendon squawks, sitting up, giving Gerard the best indignant look he can muster.

Gerard raises a severely unimpressed eyebrow, and gives him a vaguely infuriating smirk. "Yeah, you're not my type."

"I am short and dark-haired and adorable," Brendon shoots back, "I am _totally_ your type."

"Nope," Gerard says calmly, "stop moving." He cups both hands around Brendon's leg and waits for him to still. "You aren't my type, because my type also includes the word 'single'."

"Oh." Brendon stops short at that, surprised. "Right."

And shit, suddenly he misses Sarah. Suddenly he feels really _guilty_ for not missing Sarah before this, for being so goldfish-brained that he was seriously all whee, fairy tales, yay, and _forgot to miss his fucking girlfriend_. But now he does: he misses her easy smile, and her laugh, and the way she teases him when he's being ridiculous.

"Plus, I'm not really interested in flirting with someone whose boyfriend could probably beat the shit out of me," Gerard says idly. Brendon blinks, and then he goes cold just as his ankle goes really _hot_ under Gerard's hands, and he gasps softly.

"Ow. Ow, um," he mutters, pressing his lips tight together. "Okay."

"It only lasts a second," Gerard says, his voice strained. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and rubs his thumb against Brendon's skin, small whorls that Brendon knows are supposed to be comforting. It helps, a little, but he's still mostly reeling that Gerard automatically thought he and Spencer were - that.

"Okay," Brendon mutters, one hand curling around the bottom bar of the cage as he hangs on, closing his eyes as he feels his face heat up a little.

It isn't the first time, or even the fifth time that he'll have to correct someone who assumes he and Spencer are together. It's what comes of living in each other's pockets for so long, knowing fucking _all_ of each other's shit for going on a decade. He knows they're kind of an old married couple together, bickering and fond, so he can see where people get the wrong impression, make incorrect assumptions.

It's the first time, though, that he feels this weird combination of guilt and regret about it, telling someone the truth.

Finally, the heat and pressure die off, and Brendon exhales, slow and shaky. On the other side of the bars, Gerard doesn't look much better - he takes his hands off Brendon's ankle and sets them on his thighs, fingers twitching, his head hanging down towards his chest so that Brendon can't see his expression. He can see the rapid rise and fall of Gerard's chest, though.

"You okay?" he asks, worried.

"Yeah," Gerard mutters, taking a couple of deep breaths before he looks up and gives Brendon a tight smile. "Fuck. I'm fine, it's just kind of draining, y'know?"

Brendon nods, and bites his lip. "Um. Well, thank you."

"It's okay," Gerard says, reaching to pat his leg. "Does it feel better now?"

Brendon moves his leg around a little, startled at how his ankle is only sort of stiff. "Yeah, wow."

"Good." Gerard sits back, uses a hand on his own knee to push himself back into standing, and he reaches for his cooled cup of coffee on the side table before he starts back towards the kitchen.

"Um, Spencer and I aren't - " Brendon tells his back, but he trails off when Gerard turns around. "Um. I have a girlfriend."

Gerard blinks. "What."

"Yeah, I. ...Yeah?" Brendon fumbles, raising his eyebrows. He realizes he shouldn't feel this incredibly awkward or this incredibly _guilty_ , like he's totally letting Gerard Not-Way down by having the temerity to have this really awesome girl who lets him kiss her. He frowns, and feels more fucked-up than normal, and squeezes his arms tighter around his chest.

Gerard's face darkens, and all the candles in the cottage sputter out. Brendon blinks, and peers into the half-light of the room, all shadows and brief patches of pale light. "Well, _congratulations_ ," Gerard drawls, turning his back, heading to the kitchen.

Brendon winces as he hears Gerard's coffee mug slamming down onto the windowsill, and then he frowns and tries to reason with himself - there's _no reason_ he has to feel bad about this. Gerard made a mistake, and Brendon told him he had, and he had done so _nicely_. What the fuck. "Hey, gosh, thanks," he says sarcastically. "I really appreciate it."

Gerard's roots are starting to show white. It's weird, actually, like watching stop-motion film except in real time. Like watching someone grow old in front of him. "You don't know how people get here, then?" Gerard asks, whirling around, black fabric catching in the movement and billowing out. Brendon suspects that the hoodie-cloak-thing is _growing_ , he watches the jagged edges of it writhe and slip across the floor. "You don't know _why_ you and Spencer were sucked in?"

"Yeah, I know why," Brendon replies, pissed-edging-to-freaked-out, watching the edges of the material slink closer to the cage. "A psychopath in a bookstore gave us the book and we totally fell for it, because while we are pretty smart dudes on our own, together Spencer and I have the combined intellectual prowess of...something really stupid, I don't know. A goat."

Gerard just _stares_ , long enough to make Brendon _seriously_ uncomfortable. "Wow, you really don't put much stock in self-analysis, do you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Brendon yelps, stung.

"It means that you obviously have no idea why you do things," Gerard explains, and he would sound almost kindly if he didn't still have _death_ in his eyes, like was seriously trying to talk himself out of doing Brendon physical harm. His hair has turned fully back into the white-silver color, which makes his eyes and his cheekbones and basically everything about his face look gaunt and white and terrifying.

"I know why I do things!"

"Bull _shit_ , you do." Gerard stalks over to the cage, settling down in a crouch a few feet from it, eye-level with Brendon suddenly and his eyes are boring holes into Brendon's head. "Believe me, I know about this. I've been there."

"Yeah?" Brendon recoils a little, but then catches himself, and glares right back at Gerard, not letting himself flinch. "Sounds to me like you haven't been much of _anywhere_ , actually."

"Oh." Gerard pulls a mock-pout. "Oh, _ow_. Okay, I meant that I used to date girls because that way I could stare at Frank as much as I wanted and if someone caught me, I could always just say 'no way, I have a girlfriend, man!'" He raises his voice up for the last part, into a mealy-mouthed squeak just _leaking_ disdain. "Oh, or I could say that I was just thinking about painting him, or drawing him, or that the composition of him and the background was really intriguing." He laughs a little, remembering. "God, I had so many excuses for wanting to get him naked, seriously."

Brendon just stares at him, completely at a loss for what to say. His throat is dry, and it hurts to swallow. "Um..."

"You know that sometimes I'd get drunk just so that he'd come and take care of me?" Gerard says, frowning, having to reach inside his cloak for his cigarettes, fumbling one of the packet and lighting it with slightly-trembling fingers. He takes a long, deep drag and holds it for a second, before he continues, smoke leaking out of his mouth as he speaks. "I was so...it wasn't even just wanting him, at that point, I fucking. God, I loved him. He's so amazing, you don't even." He trails off and tilts his chin up, examining the cigarette in his fingers before he casts a sidelong glance at Brendon. "You and Spencer, you've known each other for years, right?"

"Well, yeah - "

"Work together too, don't you?"

"Um. Yeah, but - "

"And there used to be more of you, didn't there, but now it's just the two of you and god, you just have _no idea_ how tightly you cling to him, do you?" He smiles a little, wry, and there's a darkness, a twist to the expression that makes Brendon's skin prickle. "You have no idea how you look at him. Like he's the only thing in the world that matters."

Gerard shrugs, and sucks on the cigarettes again, exhaling a plume of smoke. "It's kind of beautiful, actually," he admits. "Fucked up, but. The sort of thing I wish I could paint."

"I." Brendon can feel the blood draining out of his face, feel his hands starting to shake a little. "Look, shut the fuck up, you don't know what we've been through."

"Yeah," Gerard laughs, humorlessly, "I do. Been there, remember? And he takes care of you, doesn't he? Not like your girlfriend does," he says, "he doesn't get the fun stuff. He takes care of all the boring day-to-day shit for you, doesn't he? He reminds you when - when the trash is full, and when it's your parents' birthdays, and you fucking let him and you doodle in your journals and have big ideas and you have _no fucking clue_ how bad it would hurt to lose him, do you?"

"Fuck you," Brendon breathes, eyes wide, hunched up against the corner of the cage. "I almost did. I almost fucking _did_ , I thought I _had_ \- "

"So you went and you got a girlfriend, didn't you," Gerard says, a mean little smile curling across his face, "because god help you if you had to be alone with yourself, if you had to pull _yourself_ up out of the hole you found yourself in - "

"Fucking _shut up_ , Gerard, _god_ \- " Brendon chokes. His eyes are starting to sting, _shit_ , and any minute Spencer's going to walk back in the door and wonder what the fuck is going on, and oh shit, _shit_.

"Think about it," Gerard says, his voice little more than a whisper, still staring right at Brendon. "Can you even imagine it? Him not being there, for when you want to do something fucking ridiculous at two in the morning and nobody else would get why, or when you need to make sure you're not going fucking crazy and he's the only one who could _possibly_ be a good judge since _he was there too_?"

Brendon swallows, and shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut to try to get Gerard's stare out of his brain. All it does is take him back to the worst times, the shitty practice space in Vegas, the completely silent "boys' nights out" in South Africa, the times he spent curled up on Shane's couch, convinced tomorrow'd be the day things finally blew up.

He thinks about Spencer deflecting Ryan's attention for long enough to let Brendon get his cool back when he was trying to wrap his mouth around the lyrics for _Sins_ for the first time. The water bottles and Red Bulls that Spencer could find on their bus when no one else could, and how they'd shared a room all through Africa, fuck Zack's lottery system. Spencer's hand on his back or his shoulder just when he was about to say something unforgivable during those last few "practices."

He thinks about Spencer, sprawled like a cat on his shitty futon in that first apartment in Vegas, complaining about the lack of air-conditioning; Spencer sprawled on the sofa in the bus lounge, complaining about the lack of air-conditioning; Spencer sprawled on the sofa of their house, complaining about how Brendon _totally cheated_ on that Guitar Hero battle. Spencer's quick smile and the way he tries to smother it before anyone catches him at it, the way he could always say just the right thing to make Ryan realize he was being an ass, the way his eyes looked when he realized he _couldn't_ , anymore.

"Fuck," Brendon says, sucking a breath deep into his lungs and holding it there, curling his knees up protectively. He drops his head down on them, and exhales it slowly. "Oh. Fuck." He shudders, and bangs his fist down on the ground beside him, swallowing thickly. "Shit, I was doing such a good job of not thinking about this anymore, god _damn_ it, Gerard."

There's a small sound near him, fabric skritching over wood, and Brendon doesn't lift his head up until there's the feeling of a hand pressed to his shoulder. He starts, and tilts his head enough to see - Gerard's in the cage with him, crowded in beside him, looking sort of apologetic. "Brendon."

"Maybe leave me the fuck alone for a minute," Brendon suggests, his voice thick as he drops his head back down. He exhales raggedly, and shivers a little as Gerard moves his hand up to rub the back of his neck.

"Hey," Gerard says, squeezing his shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry. I know I can get a little..."

"Scary?" Brendon supplies.

"I was gonna go for 'intense,' but whatever." There's a small pause, and a sigh, and Brendon feels himself being pulled into an awkward, gangly hug. He's tense for a second, but then he decides to just go with it, and he sags down into Gerard's hoodie. It smells like cigarettes and oranges and unwashed hair, but it's oddly comforting anyway. "Yours stayed," he says simply. "So you've already got one up on some of us, right?"

"His best friend left," Brendon mutters, the words half-lost in Gerard's clothes. He can feel Gerard duck down, the heat of his breath against his cheek, but he can't make himself shift up and speak clearly. "His best _friend_. For, like, forever. I couldn't - I didn't know how to compete with that. I didn't really think I _should_ , you know?" He frowns, and turns his head a little so he can breathe, resting his head on what he assumes is Gerard's shoulder. "It's. ...Okay, long story short, I grew up in a house where pretty much _everything_ was sacred. Or off-limits. And then I grew up and found out that, y'know, almost _nothing_ is, but Spencer and Ryan were always _Spencer and Ryan_ and they were always the one thing that actually was." He laughs, and gestures with a hand. "You know. Sacred and off-limits and everything. I don't know."

"So...what, they were fucking?"

Brendon rolls his eyes and huffs. " _No_ , dickbag, jesus. I'm saying that kind of because of me - and other shit, but a lot of it was me - the one best, most constant thing in Spencer's life busted up and I'm still trying to figure that shit out. Also he might be harboring resentment or something, I don't know."

"I'm not hearing much about your permanent heart-eyes for him, though," Gerard remarks placidly, reaching over to tweak Brendon's nose. Brendon bats his hand away and glowers up at him, but privately, he's not very annoyed. He hasn't had anyone do that since his brothers and sisters left home - let him cuddle up, and tease him, without the threat of seriously getting his ass kicked. "I'm just hearing a lot of self-fulfilling prophecy bullshit about your star-crossed love."

"Christ," Brendon breathes, tilting his head up to look at the ceiling, laughing at himself quietly. "Dude, the hearteyes are probably the second most constant thing in Spencer's life, not that he knows it," Brendon admits. "It sort of...god, this sounds pathetic, but it sort of doesn't even register anymore, not even for _me_ ," he laughs. "And by now, we've friend-boxed each other so hard that it's a moot point, you know?" He shrugs a shoulder. "Just, sometimes I have flare-ups."

Gerard snorts, and squeezes Brendon's shoulder, and is silent for a moment. "Okay, storytime," he says finally, scootching up close, tilting his head so it's touching Brendon's. "So Frank and I used to have this part-time gig as musicians in this little town called Bremen. There were...costumes involved, I don't know, the prince there is fucking insane and had a hard-on for Mikey for a while. I don't want to talk about it."

"Wow, this is a great story," Brendon says seriously. "I'm feeling really enlightened." Gerard pinches his side, and Brendon yelps and frog-punches his thigh, and there's a thirty-second scuffle where they both try to get in vicious pinches and slaps before they settle back down comfortably.

"So _anyway_ , Frank and I were working together and I was a total fucking mess. I don't - I can't even." Gerard frowns, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "All right, as you might have _guessed_ from the windowpanes, I used to drink. A _lot_. Like, a _lot_ a lot, like there are meetings for this, a lot. And so Frank had to pick up all the slack that I was just, y'know, dropping, because I could barely fucking _walk_ half the time, and I didn't even see it, I didn't even see how much I was taking advantage of him, how much I was fucking _relying_ on him, until the rest of the guys had left and we were out of a job. And then one morning - one afternoon, really - I woke up, and Frank was gone, too.

"That was fucking fun, let me tell you, going from being a drunk with a job and an unpaid personal assistant to a drunk with no job and no prospects _and_ a broken heart. Mikey put up with me for a while, but even he has his limits, and we had this huge blowup one night, and I just."

Brendon turns and looks up at Gerard, whose lips are pursed up. His eyes are a little red, too, so Brendon manages to snake an arm around him and squeezes, hooking his chin on Gerard's shoulder. He's not sure, but he thinks that that's the hoodie rubbing up against his arm like a contented cat. "Hey. You're okay."

"Well, yeah, _now_ ," Gerard says, expelling a breath with a laugh, giving Brendon this brittle little smile. "I wasn't then, I just - stormed into the woods and found this cottage and it was empty so I piled it full of all the booze I could carry and just holed up. I was going to just...I don't know, I wanted to die.

"Didn't fucking work, though, I just made myself so sick that if I even _tried_ to drink I'd throw up, and so I decided to just stop. Because, y'know, what was I even doing with my life, right?" He gestures a little, and reaches into his hoodie, rooting around for a second before he finds his cigarettes and produces them. He wordlessly hands the pack to Brendon, who considers it for a second and then takes one, because what the hell. "So," he says, taking the last one out of the pack and popping the empty cardboard out of existence before he lights both his and Brendon's with a snap of his fingers. "So, I got sober and got the job offer and stayed. Redid the windows with the bottles," he says, pointing to them. "As a reminder. But you know what the bitch of it is?" He pauses, and laughs, eyes actually shining with mirth for a second before he continues. "I did all of this mostly because I wanted Frank - well, and Mikey - to be proud of me again. I stopped drinking, I started being a real person, I started bathing occasionally. I've held down a job for more than six months, man, which is seriously impressive, for me. And I'm _so fucking terrified_ of finding Frank and telling him. I just. Shit, I haven't been able to do it."

Gerard shrugs a bony shoulder. "Anyway, my point is, I've fucking wasted years of my life because I've been shit-scared of going after what I want. And what do I have to show for it, but a house made of various types of death and visitors who occasionally try to roast me? Being too scared of what you want to even go after it is fucking ridiculous."

Brendon considers this for a minute, and takes a drag off his cigarette, letting the smoke fall in a thick plume out of his mouth. "Okay, point taken. And I'm glad you got sober," Brendon tells him. "That's tough, and awesome." He considers his cigarette, and then takes one more drag and hands it over to Gerard, who tsks at the waste of good tobacco but makes it disappear. "But I gotta say, no wonder you're crazy as fuck, man," he says kindly, giving Gerard another squeeze. "You're living in, like, an art installation of all your worst life decisions."

Gerard snorts as well, and starts chuckling, almost soundless. "Aren't we all?" He takes a long drag off his cigarette and sighs heavily, the smoke rushing out and dissipating quickly into the room.

Brendon watches Gerard's hand splay wide as he brings the cigarette back up to his mouth, puffing on it like pantomime silent movie star. He doesn't know why, but suddenly Brendon has this _perfect fucking image_ of a tiny kiddie Gerard gesturing and practicing with one of his mother's unlit cigarettes, studying himself and his _dramatic hand gestures_ in the bathroom mirror. And after that, he can't help it, he seriously _can't_. He starts giggling, and presses his face against Gerard's possessed hoodie. "Oh, the humanity!" he wails, muffled, flailing his outside arm dramatically. "The unbearable lightness of _being_ , man!"

"Huh?"

Brendon peeks up at Gerard, who's giving him a thoroughly confused look. He pouts, and lolls his head back on Gerard's shoulder despondently. "You don't understand my pain. My deep, sensitive man-pain. I have to go write some very moving song lyrics now. I might draw sad pictures on my face. _You don't know._ "

"Shut up," Gerard says, though Brendon can feel his shoulders starting to shake with laughter as he starts trying to push Brendon of of him. "Oh my _god_ , fucking shut up, that's it, I'm never sharing anything with anyone ever again."

"You're a rock! You're an i-i-i-island!" Brendon retaliates, lifting his head up enough to give Gerard a wide grin. He clings like a limpet, not letting Gerard shrug him off, grabbing onto his flailing arms and tugging them back around himself. "Islands can cuddle, what the fuck."

"You've taken my poor fragile feelings and _crushed_ them. Like, like eggshells," Gerard tells him matter-of-factly, obviously attempting to hide his smile.

" _Sad_ eggshells. Eggshells that have had the egg sucked out of them, so now they're _hollow_ ," Brendon adds cheerfully.

"Seriously, I'm like. I'm fucking broken on the inside now. Awesome."

"My work here is done," Brendon tells him solemnly. Finally, Gerard's composure falters, and he starts laughing gleefully, this weird honking noise that cracks _Brendon_ up, so that when Spencer finally wanders back in with two buckets full of water a few seconds later, he gives them both a confused look before he heads toward the kitchen.

"Do I want to know?" he asks, giving them both his best weary, longsuffering frown.

"I broke Gerard," Brendon tells him happily, hugging Gerard's head. "Like an _egg_."

"A hollow one," Gerard reminds him, poking him in the side. "I'm a fucking _Faberge_ , all right?"

"Like a hollow, sort of goth-y Faberge egg," Brendon amends easily. "With lots of _feelings_."

Spencer regards them calmly for a minute, and nods. "Sounds about right."

"Fuck you both," Gerard says, finally tugging away from Brendon enough to magic himself out of the cage. " _Ha._ "

"No fair," Brendon pouts, giving Gerard the best hangdog expression he can muster. "No fair, having magic and stuff." Gerard gives him a smug little smile, and flips him off as he moves over to the kitchen, helping Spencer tilt the bucket of water into the pot on the stove. The candles all re-flame simultaneously, making the three of them blink for a second before they get used to the light.

"Shut up or I won't give you any noodles," Gerard tells him, mostly unfazed. "Drink your coffee."

"You gave him coffee? Seriously?" Spencer asks, genuine alarm in his voice.

"Hi, I'm _right here_ ," Brendon says loudly. "I can actually hear you, how about that."

"I didn't say you couldn't," Spencer tells him, as he rolls up his sleeves. "Is there soap somewhere in here?" he asks Gerard, looking around the cottage in dismay.

"Um," Gerard says, looking flummoxed. "Yeah, somewhere."

Spencer gives him a thoroughly disgusted stare. "Dude, seriously, you have all this magic and you can't just...make all the trash and gross go poof?"

"He's not Mary Poppins, Spence," Brendon says, still a little miffed about the coffee comment. He's not a _six-year-old_ , for fuck's sake.

"I...guess I could? But honestly I don't even notice it until someone new's in the house," Gerard admits, hunching his shoulders up and looking embarrassed. "Plus, I think I'm supposed to have something for people to, y'know, actually clean up."

"This is all a fucking elaborate ruse just to get free housekeeping, isn't it," Spencer says, voice flat.

"You caught me."

"Put soap in this," Spencer orders, pointing to the bucket.

Gerard rolls his eyes, but waves his hand at the bucket, which is suddenly filled with suds.

"Thank you," Spencer says primly. "Now, go and sit on the sofa and try not to make any messes, this is going to be fucking difficult enough."

Gerard gives Spencer an indignant glare, and Brendon worries for a second that Spencer's about to be turned into a frog or something (and the Frog Prince is a fairy tale Brendon doesn't really want to think about living. Unless they were in New Orleans, that could be pretty sweet). However, a moment later, Gerard just rolls his eyes and goes to sit near Brendon obediently, giving him a rueful little smile. " _Pushy_ ," he whispers to Brendon, who starts snickering quietly.

 

Thirty-one games of I Spy, twelve games of tic-tac-toe, and one inadvisable thumb war later, the kitchen and dining area are spotless and Gerard and Brendon are both nursing sore thumbs. Spencer, red-faced and sort of sweaty and with a manic look in his eyes, is glaring determinedly at the den area. Specifically, the bookshelves.

"If you touch them, I will kill you," Gerard tells him again, glowering mutinously from his vantage point on the sofa. "I have them _arranged_."

"Just let me dust them," Spencer wheedles, making a face as he runs one finger across the second-to-top bookshelf and his fingertip comes away grey. "Seriously, _look at that_."

"It's just dust," Gerard points out.

"It's like _half an inch_ of dust." Brendon clarifies.

"Half an inch of _dust_. Which you're breathing in," Spencer says, giving them both a disappointed look. Brendon would dearly love to point out that it makes him look like his mother, but he doesn't really feel like getting his ankle re-broken just now.

Gerard rolls his eyes. "Well shit, you've really driven home the danger of this situation, fuck knows I don't want to be inhaling any harmful materials daily. That might damage my _healthy pink lungs_."

"Fuck you, _you_ dust them, then."

"I'll dust them," Brendon offers, giving them both a hopeful smile. "It's my turn to clean anyway, and I'm getting really bored and stiff from being stuck in here."

"That's what she said," Gerard muses, before looking deeply horrified at himself. He turns to Spencer and glares for a few more seconds, just for spite, before he squints his eyes at the bookshelf and all the books are suddenly a lot cleaner. "There. Better?"

"Yes. Thank you." Spencer folds his arms and scowls.

"I mean, I'm just saying," Brendon tells the room mournfully. "I'm just saying, I've been a very patient, nice guy, and I would like to get out of the man-cage now. I don't really think that's too much to ask."

"Fucksake," Gerard grumbles, and he waves his hand towards Brendon, who suddenly falls over backwards when the cage disappears.

"Hey!" Brendon squawks, sitting back up, rubbing the back of his head before he realizes oh, hey, _freedom_. "Hey!" he says again, happily, rushing to stand up. "Oh my _god_ ," he groans, stretching his arms above his head, swinging them down in a wide arc to touch his toes. "Oh my god, _standing_. Standing on two feet is the greatest. No wonder our ancestors evolved."

"How's your ankle?" Spencer asks, not looking away from his glaring contest with Gerard.

Brendon tests it out, moving his foot around in a circle, both ways, jumping up and down gingerly on both feet. "Feels pretty good."

"Good." Spencer rolls his eyes and gives up, wordlessly conceding defeat to Gerard as he looks over, carefully inspecting Brendon before he nods, approving.

"Noodles," Gerard decides, getting up off the sofa now that Spencer's at a stopping point and Brendon's mobile again.

"I just got the fire going, the water isn't boiling y - " Spencer starts, but Gerard sighs and taps the handle of the pot, not bothering to comment as the water instantly starts to boil. "Right," he manages lamely, sinking down onto the sofa, closing his eyes for a second.

"All tuckered out," Brendon croons, sinking down beside him and throwing his legs over Spencer's lap. Spencer grunts and drops his arm over Brendon's legs, slouching over until his head's resting on Brendon's shoulder, but he otherwise doesn't respond. Brendon turns to rest his cheek on warm hair, steadfastly ignoring the way Gerard is smirking and waggling his eyebrows their way.

"Hey. Don't go to sleep," he warns Spence, wrinkling his nose and spluttering as a stray piece of hair gets in his mouth. "Gonna eat soon."

"Yeah," Spencer mutters, obviously already near to dozing, from the way he slurs the word out. Brendon rolls his eyes and threads an arm across the back of the sofa, twisting his hand so he can run it through Spencer's hair slowly.

"Look at you, lying to me," Brendon murmurs, the corner of his mouth against Spencer's head. Spence makes an apologetic noise, but doesn't contradict him, and Brendon jumps a little at the sudden press of the cold tip of Spencer's nose to his neck. "Dick," he grumbles, giving Spence's hair a tug.

"...Should I put in squash? I think they're still good," Gerard calls from near the stove, looking dubiously at a couple of yellow squash he's holding up in one hand.

"If you want," Brendon tells him, careful not to talk too loud, since Spencer's breathing is starting to fall into the shallow cadence it always hits when he's just dropping off. He thinks about how he should probably get up, and help with the noodles, but he glances down at the sweep of Spencer's eyelashes, his closed eyes, and admits to himself that it's not going to happen. "Look, seriously, you could just make plain noodles and it'd be awesome."

"Gross, I'm not eating plain noodles," Gerard says, matter-of-fact, giving Brendon a sneaky sidelong look. "And I promise I'm not going to make you eat something that's disgusting. I'm a good cook."

"Okay." Brendon's lack of confidence must be evident in his voice, because Gerard rolls his eyes.

"You just sit there and look pretty and keep pretending you're not cuddling, and I'll do dinner, deal?" he says, gesturing threateningly with a wooden spoon.

"Not _cuddling_ ," Brendon mutters mutinously, wrapping his arm more securely around Spencer's shoulder, tugging him in til Spencer snuffles and drapes over him, one arm moving around his middle.

"No, not at _all_ ," Gerard says, gazing unblinkingly at the tangle of Brendon and Spencer until Brendon flips him off and shuts his eyes for a moment too. He's not tired, not in a way that will actually let him _sleep_ , but it's easier for him to focus on the easy rhythm of Spencer's breathing and the songs Gerard keeps humming under his breath as he works.

Brendon listens to the small clatters as Gerard keeps throwing stuff into the dinner pot, and he strokes the soft, downy hair behind Spencer's ear, and tries not to think about how everything in him feels still, and happy, and sweet.

 

He drifts, not really asleep but certainly not conscious enough to hold a conversation, for howevermany minutes it takes Gerard to figure out his noodles and his vegetables and the combination thereof. He doesn't bother opening his eyes, though, until he's hit by the tail-end of a pepper. It drops into his lap, and Brendon gives Gerard a disgruntled look, stretching a little. "What was that for?"

"It's almost done," Gerard tells him, stirring the pot on the stove with single-minded focus, even as the table behind him sets itself.

Brendon watches the plates and cups hover in the air before setting down precisely, and then he shakes his head and reaches down to shake Spencer's shoulder. "Spence. Wake up, food's ready."

Spencer frowns and bats at Brendon's hand, curling up against him a little tighter. "'k off," he grumbles, sliding his forehead down onto Brendon's shoulder.

"Nope," Brendon tells him, pinching his arm lightly. "Food. Noodles, Spence, you like noodles."

"Your mom likes noodles," Spencer mumbles, shaking his head but pulling back a little, still refusing to open his eyes.

"You're right, she does," Brendon agrees, reaching one hand up so he can pinch Spencer's nose closed. _That_ only lasts a second, though, because Spencer darts his tongue out to swipe across Brendon's wrist, and Brendon yelps and lets go.

"Ha," Spencer says, stretching lazily, finally opening his eyes to give Brendon a triumphant little smirk. Brendon glares, and pokes a finger in his stomach, watching, satisfied, as Spencer curls up around his middle protectively, like a potato bug. "Douche," Spencer mutters. Then he turns to look over his shoulder. "Hey, d'you want help?"

"No, I think it's done," Gerard says, gazing down at the pot bemusedly. "It's...it's not usually this green."

"What sort of green are we talking, here?" Brendon asks warily. "Like, leafy vegetables green, or radioactive nuclear waste green?"

"I dunno," Gerard says, shrugging and spooning the contents out onto plates, letting them hover over to the table on their own. "A sort of green it usually isn't. It tastes good, though, I did a taste test!" he assures them, with a wide-eyed, earnest look that Brendon doesn't have the heart to make fun of.

"Maybe we'll get superpowers," Spencer mumbles groggily, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips til they lose the heavy-lidded sleepy look. He stretches, his body a long line that Brendon doesn't stare at, and rocks up into standing. "Dibs on flying."

"Hey, no fair," Brendon says, pouting up at him. "Flying's the best."

"You could have telekinesis," Gerard offers, studiously avoiding Brendon's eyes, concentrating on putting the finishing touches on the table. "Then you could read people's thoughts."

"Telepathy is reading people's thoughts," Spencer corrects, a little too quickly to be believed. He seems to realize this, and gives them both a hunted look. "Telekinesis is when you can move shit with your brain. It's totally normal that I know this. Shut up."

"No, yeah, totally normal," Gerard tells him, amused. " _I_ think you're _totally normal_ for knowing that, Spencer." And then he gives Spencer a wide, big-eyed, incredibly unsettling smile.

"Thank you," Spencer says, and immediately looks at the floor.

Brendon rolls his eyes, and risks a quick glance at Spencer, who's still attempting to recover from his outburst of geekery, thank god. (He's looking a little bit flushed, though, and for a second Brendon is worried that he's running a fever. He doesn't want to see the cure Gerard has in store for that.) "Yeah, _no_ ," he says firmly. "I would...teleport. Apparate." He gestures with a hand. "The 'beam me up Scotty' shit."

"Oh, that'd be good," Spencer muses, stretching and then standing up, slapping at Brendon's hand when Brendon whines and tries to pull him back down so he can lean on him some more. "You could beam us back home." He stuffs his hands in his pockets and lopes over to the table, wincing at the food on the table and helping Gerard clear off the stove.

Brendon sighs and lolls his head back against the sofa for a while, gazing at the two of them together. Gerard and Spencer both seem to be competing in an unspoken bad posture contest, and Brendon sort of wants to go over there and thump Spencer in the middle of the back til he stands up straight.

However, he settles for watching them fondly, watching Spence scrub a pot until Gerard rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers and the pot's clean. He smirks a little at the glare Spencer gives Gerard, and then feels his stomach twist in an old, mostly unenjoyable way.

Pete told him once, back during their NRWC days, that getting a crush on a bandmate was pretty much inevitable. It was what you did _after_ you got the crush that really mattered. "You grow up. You get the fuck over yourself and you get the fuck over him and you _do not fuck things up_ , anymore than you already have," Pete said, staring down at his hands, watching them shake as he shredded the back cover of one of Ryan's APs.

Which was, oddly, pretty sound advice to be coming from Pete Wentz.

Brendon took it to heart, and it did help after a while. After a while, he retrained himself to look ahead during interviews instead of at the others for validation, he got laid a few times, he got a tattoo. He kept his eyes on the floor, or on the press, or on the crowd. It got easier not to look over for smiles, nods, laughs. It got easier not to put just a _little_ more private emphasis on the laughs and grins he got from Spence.

Sometimes, though, something can jar him back into being seventeen and _stupid_ , feeling like he'll fucking die of it when he watches Spencer do something completely unremarkable and completely beautiful. Right now, it's Spencer tilting his forehead towards Gerard's, the two of them talking in hushed voices near the sink, grinning. Brendon can see just the side of Spencer's smile, and the last rays of the sun are red and pink through the kitchen window, and Brendon _wants_ suddenly, wants so badly to hold onto this and never leave, even though it isn't his.

He sucks in a breath and stands, stretching and walking the perimeter of the den area to give himself time to fucking get it together before he goes over to join them. He notices Spencer muttering something about _Frank said_ and Gerard looking delighted, and then the two of them go quiet and happy and Spencer's stomach growls, and the three of them sit down to eat.

Gerard's food really is fucking neon green, but he's right, it does taste good. And after the tours they've been on, Brendon really can't say he hasn't eaten weirder.

 

 

"Oh my god, I'm going to die," Brendon whimpers, pushing his bowl away and rubbing a hand over his stomach. "M'going to die of so much food."

"Turned out pretty okay," Gerard nods, slowly pulling his spoon out of his mouth, licking it spotless. "I wish I'd been paying more attention, because fuck if I know what made it that color," he sighs.

"If we sprout feathers in the next couple of hours, I know who I'm blaming," Spencer says evenly, though he's totally cleaned his bowl as well, he's not fooling anyone.

"No!" Gerard yelps, stung. "Fuck no, man, I wouldn't." He blinks, and bites his lip, and gives Brendon a sheepish sidelong glance. "...I mean, at least not knowingly. And feathers are totally hard to do, you can't just mix characteristics from species like that without knowing it."

Brendon snorts, and leans down to rest his head on the table, groaning at the sudden change in position. "Seriously. Dying."

"Well, you ate like half the pot," Spencer points out. Brendon can hear him push his chair out, and then the clank and clatter of the dishes being gathered.

"It was _so good_ ," Brendon protests, lifting his head up to give Spencer a hangdog look. Spencer's unfazed, however, and continues gathering the dishes. Brendon gets up and wobbles a little (from the _food_ , not from his ankle) and heads over to the sofa, sinking down onto it with a relieved moan.

"Oh hey," Gerard says, sitting up a little, giving them both a startled look, "I made one of you clean and I made one of you eat too much!"

"...Yeah?" Brendon says, raising his eyebrows in a silent prompt.

"That's, like." Gerard's shoulders deflate a little. "That's basically my job description. But I actually _did_ it this time, holy shit."

The three of them share bemused little smiles, and then Spencer starts doing the dishes, and gives Gerard a _look_ when he makes vague protesting noises. Gerard's a quick study, though, and he subsides easily, coming to sink down on the sofa beside Brendon, who's used to letting Spencer do dishes. "It makes him feel needed, or something," Brendon confides in a stage whisper, tilting his head towards Gerard a little. "I think he secretly wants to be Donna Reed."

"I'm not the one in a dress right now," Spencer points out, from where he's dunking a plate in soapy water.

"I'm sorry you're jealous of my dress," Brendon shoots back.

"I'm sorry you'd rather live in squalor than clean some plates."

"I'm sorry you think a couple of dirty plates is squalor."

"I'm sorry I'm not as into botulism and food poisoning as you are."

"I'm starting to rethink this whole shoving me into an oven thing," Gerard cuts in, rubbing his chin absently. "I might be down with it, depending on how long you guys wanna keep this up."

There's a small pause.

"I'm sorry your attempts at conversation made Gerard contemplate suicide," Brendon tells Spencer, sighing sadly.

 

It's well past sunset by the time Brendon and Spencer manage to convince Gerard that they don't need to stay the night. "I just turned the pallet! And it's new, I got it last summer! And Alicia washed the blankets only like a month ago!" he protests, giving them both a mournful look. Brendon can practically _hear_ Spencer's cringe behind him, and he pats Gerard's shoulder manfully.

"Dude, we'll be _fine_. And I do sorta want to get out of this dress sometime in the near future," Brendon reminds him, gazing ruefully down at the total wreck that is his pinafore.

"The colors are all wrong," Gerard agrees, and Brendon actually can't tell if he's joking or not. "And you - oh." He stills, and then a huge smile breaks out all over his face. Brendon recoils a little, leaning back into Spencer, but before either of them can respond, Gerard hops off the sofa and does this weird little loping skip to the door, swinging it wide open. "Hey!"

At the door, with his hand still poised to knock, is a guy who looks like he might have more elbows and angles than even Ryan. "You know I hate it when you do that," he mutters, giving Gerard a dour look as he shuffles inside and starts unwinding an extralong scarf from around his head.

"This is my brother!" Gerard beams, waving a hand at the guy. "Mikey, this is Brendon and Spencer. Brendon's the one in the dress." Both Brendon and Spencer wave, confused.

"Hey," Mikey says, totally unruffled, as he finally gets to the other end of the scarf. He deposits what must be at least twenty feet of fabric into the nearest chair, and reaches out the still-open door to drag in a big linen bag. "Alicia says she's not doing your laundry anymore until you finish the portrait of Winston."

"She always says that," Gerard scoffs. "Anyway, it's almost done, I just can't get the texture of his fur to look right."

"Um," Brendon says, raising his hand up to interject a very necessary _what the fuck_ , but Spencer silently reaches for his hand and pulls it back down, shooting him a _don't ask or we'll never get out_ kind of look.

The two not-Way brothers bicker for a little bit more in the doorway, and then they simultaneously reach some sort of unvoiced truce - Mikey picks up the huge bag of clothes and tosses it like a beanbag into Gerard's bedroom. Brendon can hear Spencer's small noise of approbation, and he knows his own eyes have just gone a little bit wide. Gerard goes to try to scrounge up something for Mikey to eat, and Mikey comes and perches ( _like a bat_ , Brendon thinks - maybe it runs in the family) on the back of the chair opposite the sofa, giving him and Spencer a curious - though thoroughly unimpressed - look.

"So. Two guys, huh?"

Brendon can feel his face flushing.

"So. Not human, huh?" Spencer shoots back, tilting his head and giving Mikey his best unfazed look back.

Mikey smiles a secret little smile at them, and then curls his lip up on one side then the other, tonguing the _suddenly really visible_ fangs where his incisors should be. The hand Spencer has on Brendon's arm tightens, and Brendon edges between the two of them a little.

"Neat," he says, shooting for "amiable."

"Gee's usually run his visitors off by now. Or they've tried to cook him," Mikey observes, fixing Brendon with a very blank, somehow very unsettling look.

"We haven't tried to cook him," Brendon assures him. "Spencer cleaned the cottage and I...um, I provided entertainment, and we had dinner, and now we're getting ready to leave. That's all."

"Huh." Mikey looks around, his eyebrows quirking as he takes in the lack of gross coating the surfaces of the house, and when he turns back to them, there's almost something like acceptance in his expression. "Okay." Spencer's hand relaxes on Brendon's arm, and Brendon exhales slowly, and Gerard finally comes back with a bowl of something that looks distressingly like raw meat.

"They're _nice_ ," Gerard tells him, thumping Mikey on the shoulder as he hands the bowl over. Mikey makes a face and sniffs the contents, then starts to delicately pick at them. "Frank liked them."

Mikey looks up sharply. "They saw Frank?"

"Yeah, he's cool," Brendon chimes in enthusiastically. "He let me play his guitar."

Mikey's eyebrows shoot up into his hair, and he exchanges glances with Gerard, chewing thoughtfully. There's a complicated waggling of eyebrows from the both of them, and Brendon loses interest after half a minute - he's spent the last five years trying to figure out eyebrow conversations between Spencer and Ryan, and he's never had any luck.

Eventually, they settle whatever issue it was they were discussing, and Gerard sighs. "Fine," he grumbles, shoving off the sofa and heading towards the front door. "Back in a _minute_ ," he warns, mostly in Mikey's direction, and he closes the door behind himself.

"What," Spencer says, flat.

Mikey rubs a hand over his face, looking really _tired_ all of a sudden, and Brendon remembers how he's the only one who saw Gerard at his worst. "How was Frank?"

"He's in love with Gerard," Brendon says quickly, sort of startled at himself afterwards. "Um. He talked to Spencer about it." He glances back at Spencer, who gives him a _gee, thanks_ kind of glare.

"Yeah, duh," Mikey grumbles, propping his chin in his hand, resting his elbow on his knee. "They've been so fucking stupid about each other for _years_ , you don't even know."

"He said he might go visit," Spencer pipes up. "After we leave."

"Yeah?" Mikey's eyebrows quirk up again, just a little, and he looks down at his half-eaten bowl of carnage with something akin to surprise in his eyes. "Huh."

"So...yeah," Brendon says, feeling sort of wrong-footed. There's obviously something to this conversation he's just not getting, but a look back at Spencer shows him to be just as confused, so really -

"So like," Mikey starts, interrupting Brendon's train of thought. "Gerard sort of sucks at this part and since you didn't try to char-broil him, I'm gonna do it." He reaches up and pushes a few tendrils of hair behind his ears, and Brendon's struck by the family resemblance and by how _dead_ Mikey really does look - too-white and shadowed and bony. "To get out, you have to go in," and here he gestures towards the open windows looking out into the forest, "and not everything in there is as much of a pushover as Gee is."

"I'm not a pushover!" Gerard shouts from the other side of the door. Mikey just rolls his eyes at the two of them.

"Seriously, there's some fucked-up shit."

"Cheshire cats?" Spencer asks solemnly, and Brendon has to quickly look down at his hands to hide his grin.

Mikey gives Spence a cool look. "The only reason I'm not eating you right now," he says calmly, "is that my brother likes you."

"We really appreciate that, by the way," Brendon hurries to interject, elbowing Spencer in the stomach as he does.

"Yeah, no problem. Just _I'm_ telling you to be careful out there, so, y'know. Be careful. Look out for each other. Don't wander off where the other guy can't see you."

"No, yeah, we totally have a buddy system worked out," Brendon assures him, helpful. "Buddy?" He holds up his hand.

Spencer doesn't even miss a _beat_ ; he reaches up and grabs Brendon's hand. "Buddy." _Favorite_ , Brendon thinks to himself, beaming at Mikey.

Mikey blinks at them slowly, like a cat deciding whether or not it _really_ wants to go to the trouble of getting up and pouncing on a mouse. "Seriously, don't let it go too long without checking in, all right?"

"We won't," Brendon promises, looking up at him, barely flinching as Mikey regards him for another long moment.

"Okay," he says finally, then he leans back and calls towards the door, "Talk's over now, you can stop eavesdropping."

"I wasn't eavesdropping," Gerard protests, in the two seconds it takes for him to open the door and stumble back inside. Brendon snickers as both Spencer and Mikey give him matching _who do you think you're fooling_ stares, and Gerard heads over to his tiny pantry and produces a basket and starts throwing stuff inside. "I found the lantern; you'll need it. It's on the front step. And this is for your breakfast tomorrow, just in case, and - Mikey, did you see where that water skein went?"

"God," Mikey snorts, dropping his head to his chest, snickering softly. "No, I haven't seen it."

"I don't think you need to worry about it," Brendon tells them, feeling sort of guilty for taking Gerard's stuff. "We usually just...pop in and out of the stories when they're finished."

"Yeah," Gerard and Mikey both say, equally dubious. "...Well, just in case," Gerard follows up finally, giving them both a vaguely sick-looking smile.

 

Mikey finds the water skein, and fills it from the well, and Spencer manages to persuade Gerard that they really, _really_ don't need hand-churned butter or another two loaves of bread in the basket he's packed for them. "And make sure he actually _cleans_ every once and a while," Spencer orders Mikey, frowning a little at both of them, hands on his hips. "Or he's going to get tapeworms and die."

"Okay, okay," Mikey says, looking hunted, folding his arms tight across his skinny chest.

"Like hell I am," Gerard says, suddenly looking fierce and sort of _determined_. "I'm going to go visit Frank. And make out with him, maybe?" He looks pale, but sort of hopeful, at the idea.

Brendon whoops and throws his arms up, victory-style, and Spencer gives Gerard an encouraging grin, but Mikey just scowls even more. "The mental image of the tapeworms was less scarring, actually."

"So much making out," Spencer assures him.

"And probably happy naked dick-touching times!" Brendon tacks on cheerfully, pleased at the way Gerard's eyes threaten to fall out of his head at the prospect.

"Thanks for that," Mikey sighs, pushing all of them out the front door, so they can at least stand around and be awkward _outside_ , that's a step closer to their eventual goal of leaving.

It's like it hits all of them at once that _shit_ , Brendon and Spencer are both going to just walk into the black, seriously foreboding-looking forest looming over them on all sides, and they're probably never going to see this Gerard, or this Mikey, again. Gerard sucks a breath in and squeezes his hands together in front of his chest painfully, and Mikey scuffs the toe of his boot into the ground, making a series of small divots. Brendon glances over, and even Spencer is shifting from foot to foot, avoiding everyone's eyes.

"Whatever," he huffs, before he all but tackles Gerard in a hug. He doesn't mind the way Gee squeaks, or how it takes him a couple of seconds to catch on and actually hug _back_ , because once he does, Gerard kinda clings. "Thank you," Brendon says, shocked to find himself actually choking up a little.

"You too," he hears Gerard mumble. Brendon exhales, sort of shaky, and Gerard pats his back kindly, and Brendon just...really _really_ hopes he finds Frank and the two of them work it out, he hopes it so much his heart hurts.

He can hear Spencer and Mikey talking to each other quietly a few feet away, exchanging tips on emotional reticence or whatever, and eventually he and Gerard are all hugged out. Brendon's barely pulled away before Gerard lunges for Spencer and pulls him into an equally fierce hug, and Brendon can't help chuckling at Spencer's look of total shock, before he glances over and notices Mikey watching his brother and Spence with a curious expression.

"Um, thanks for the talk," Brendon tells him, wishing his apron had pockets so he could have somewhere to put his hands. As it is, they're just sort of flailing awkwardly.

"You're welcome," Mikey tells him, giving him a tiny, tiny smile. And then he glances, lightning-quick, over at Spencer and Gerard again and Brendon decides - he takes a couple of steps forward and snakes his arm around Mikey's skinny middle and gives _him_ a hug too.

It's totally normal, except for how Gerard was like a furnace and Mikey's kind of like hugging a tree. He doesn't respond for the longest time, until finally Brendon feels bony arms come up and squeeze him just a little too tightly. Brendon's pleased at his progress, until a few seconds later he realizes Mikey's mouth is tilted down kind of close to his neck, and he's sucking in long, deep breaths like he's _inhaling_ -

Brendon squeaks and pushes away, giving Mikey a filthy look as he goes to join Spencer, who's picked up the lantern and the basket and is watching, amused, from a few feet away.

"I'm telling Alicia," Gerard says to his brother primly, though from the twitch in his lips he's obviously trying not to laugh. Mikey just shrugs his shoulders and gives Gerard a flash of a guilty smile, and Brendon huffs and snakes his arm under Spencer's, hiding behind him a little.

"Well." Spencer glances behind them, towards the forest, and then gives the brothers a small wave. "See you later."

"Yup. Be careful," Mikey reminds them.

"Bye," Gerard says, his voice going a little croaky, his eyes red-rimmed and shining suspiciously brightly, all of a sudden. "I'll tell Frank you said hi."

"Good," Spencer says, since Brendon seems to have lost the ability to speak. The wrenching feeling in his stomach is _exactly_ like the one he had as they were driving to Maryland, when he was watching Vegas grow smaller and smaller in the van's rear-view mirror until it vanished into the orange rock of the desert completely. Behind Spence, he takes a shaky breath, and leans his forehead against his shoulderblade for a second.

Spencer seems to get it, because a moment later Brendon feels fingers twining against his, Spencer's free hand taking his, using it to turn and draw him away, down the path from the cottage. He can hear Gerard managing another squeaky goodbye, but Brendon can't look back this time, he _can't_ , so he waves goodbye over his shoulder.

Spencer's hand is warm and dry and holding tight, and Brendon doesn't look back til the forest's almost swallowed them whole and he can barely make out the lights from Gerard's cottage windows. Brendon's throat works against the knot forming there, and it must show in his face, because Spencer gives his hand a friendly squeeze, turns to look at him with nothing but fondness on his face.

"Come on," Spencer tells him kindly, and with a tug, Brendon follows him down, deeper into the night and the woods and the wild.


	5. the fourth and fifth stories

The lantern puts out a glow with about a four-foot circumference, which is totally enough room for both of them, provided Spencer doesn't mind not having much of a personal space bubble.

"If I wasn't used to it by now, I never would be," Spencer sighs, much put-upon, but Brendon doesn't pay much attention - he's too busy hopping over nefarious tree roots and making sure neither one of them runs into spiderwebs because _gross_ , seriously, that is the worst feeling _ever_.

"There's a root there," Brendon tells him, pointing it out helpfully.

"Thanks," Spence murmurs, frowning and reaching for Brendon, wrapping a hand around his arm and pulling him in a little, back into the light. "Doing okay?"

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. Dude, it's only been like. Two hours since we _left_ , you're not allowed to start freaking out yet."

"Mikey said to keep checking in. So, I'm checking in," Spencer says mulishly, shifting the basket from one arm to the other.

"Here, let me take it," Brendon huffs, snagging the basket and tucking it into his elbow. "Want some water?" he asks, beginning to rummage through the contents interestedly. "Ooh, hey, there are apples. You want an apple?"

"Nah," Spencer says, glancing around them, squinting up at the night sky. "Jesus, you can't even see any stars anymore."

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep," Brendon quotes, dropping his voice, intoning the words like he's trying to be James Earl Jones. Or a reader on NPR. He snags an apple from the basket and crunches into it, giving Spencer a squinty smile when Spence shines the lantern on him.

Spencer frowns, but otherwise doesn't respond to the apple-eating. They walk along in silence for a couple of minutes. "But you have promises to keep?" he asks, finally, sounding resigned.

Brendon snorts, and takes another huge bite of apple, chomping and swallowing noisily (mostly because he knows Spencer sort of hates it). "And miles to go before I sleep, Smith the Fifth. And _miles_ to go, before I sleep," he leers.

Spencer quirks an eyebrow. "That's a pretty radical interpretation of that poem," he observes.

"Everything I do is pretty radical."

"Yeah, you're a teenage mutant ninja turtle," Spencer agrees wearily.

Brendon can't help it, the theme song from the cartoon pops out of some corner of his brain that hasn't been used since he was _seven_ , and he starts humming. "Heroes in a half-shell," he sings, mostly to himself. "Turtle power. Oh, hey, dibs on being Michelangelo."

"Well, yeah," Spencer scoffs, giving him an unsurprised look. "Addicted to pizza, with impulse control issues. Who else would you be?"

Brendon glowers, and tries to kick at Spencer's shin. "Yeah, well, you're _Raphael_. Teenage _asshole_ ninja turtle."

"I'm okay with it," Spencer decides a moment later. "He had the red eyemask. I could rock a red eyemask."

"Promise me you'll do a show like that, next tour," Brendon demands, grinning at the prospect.

"Yeah, sure," Spencer agrees easily, reaching to snatch the apple out of Brendon's hand, taking a huge bite. He hands what is basically the _core_ back to Brendon, with a beatific smile, and the next minute and a half is punctuated by Spencer chewing thoughtfully.

Brendon tries not to let his thoughts wander, but - he's in a dark forest and they've been talking about turtles that happen to be ninjas, and there aren't four of them anymore, it's only him and Spencer.

Brendon sighs quietly.

Spencer gives him a sidelong glance, and a small, rueful smile. "Jon's Donatello?" he guesses. Brendon nods miserably, and doesn't protest when Spencer holds his arm out, he just goes in for the offered cuddle.

"Ryan'd be a shitty Leonardo, though," Brendon muses a few seconds later, his words muffled against Spencer's shoulder. They're still walking, albeit slowly and sort of unsteadily.

"Ryan can be Splinter."

Brendon pauses, and chuckles, nosing Spencer's arm and eventually pulling back to look at him. "That works. Hey, you should give me a piggyback ride." Brendon pouts at the face Spencer pulls at him. "Just for a few minutes! And then I'll totally hold all the stuff and save all the apples for you, promise!"

In response, Spencer sighs and takes the basket from Brendon before gesturing for him to hop up. Pleased at how he didn't have to argue, Brendon scrambles up as easily as he can, trying not to elbow or knee Spencer in any soft places. It only takes them half a minute to get situated; they're old pros by now.

They compromise by making Brendon hold the basket _and_ the lantern - it goes out in front of them so Spencer can see. Brendon keeps up his litany of pointing out problematic branches and twigs and roots and - occasionally - a very pretty or crunchy-looking leaf.

Approximately five minutes pass, long enough for the shadows of the trees to shift over them. Somewhere, high above where they can't see, the moon is out - it's bright enough that every now and then they can see patches of the forest floor beyond the lantern, moonlight reflecting off the trees. "Okay?" Brendon asks suddenly.

Spencer turns to try to look at him, and fails. "Okay," he assures him, squeezing the hand that's holding up his left thigh.

Brendon squirms, and then leans close enough that his chin is basically hooked on Spencer's shoulder, and he starts singing _I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts_ in a deep, sepulchral voice.

"Shut up," Spencer grumbles, though he can't help breaking into quiet laughter as Brendon insists on finishing the verse, at least. Pleased, Brendon rests his cheek on Spencer's shoulder for a second.

And then, something starts pinching the inside of his leg, banging against it, _hard_.

"Ow," Brendon hisses, squirming again, trying to get away from whatever it is that's hurting him. " _Ow_ , Spence, hang on," he says, wincing, whacking Spencer's arm to get him to hold still. "Jesus, something's poking me in the leg." He pauses in his attempts to slide off. "That's what sh - "

"Yeah, okay, just get off," Spencer says, his teeth gritted together as he tries to hold still so Brendon can get down. Brendon finally manages to scramble off, having only put himself in mortal danger of getting his junk accidentally punched once or twice, and he whirls around, folding his arms to glare at Spencer -

\- and Spencer takes one look at him and starts laughing uncontrollably.

"What?" Brendon asks, frowning _deeply_. "What's going on?"

"Oh my god," Spencer says, and fuck, he's almost _giggling_. "How did you not notice?"

Brendon glares at him, and then notices that Spencer's yodeling pants are - well, gone. "Hey, your yodeling pants," he says sadly, gazing at the nondescript work trousers that have taken their places. "Your yodeling pants are gone." He looks back up, and blinks. "Spence."

"Yeah, well, _you've_ got on - "

"Spence, you have a beard again!"

Immediately distracted from whatever it was about Brendon that was threatening to make him piss his pants, Spencer puts a hand up to his face, and it _lights up_ when he encounters the facial hair Brendon remembers from home. (It sends a quick, lightning-bolt pang of homesickness running all through him.) "Sweet," Spencer breathes, tilting his chin up so he can inspect for encroaching neckbeard.

"You're clear," Brendon says. "You still have a neck."

"Good," Spencer says, pleased. He turns shining eyes back on Brendon, their corners crinkling as he starts to smirk. "Did you know you're wearing a red cape?"

"What?" Brendon immediately looks down, and groans - somehow it's _even worse_ than before. He's wearing a fucking...well, what looks like a _babydoll_ dress (no corset or stays this time, thank fuck) with a bright fire engine red cape over it, and fucking _ankle socks with ruffles_ and shiny shoes. "Shit, I look like a pedo's wet dream," he grouses, trying to tug the cape over his bare knees.

"Bow chicka bow," Spencer agrees, his attention drawing away from Brendon's scandalous outfit to inspect his own new gear. "Hey!" he says suddenly. "Hey, I have an _axe_!"

"An axe?" Brendon lifts his eyes up, frowning at the old wooden-handle axe that Spencer's holding like a sword in his right hand. "Huh."

"An axe and..." Spencer inspects the rest of his pockets and the toolbelt hanging around his waist, "a compass and what looks like an old tape measurer."

"Fancy," Brendon says, give him a thorough once-over. "You also have a pretty unfortunate hat."

Spencer instantly raises a hand to his head and pulls the hat off, inspecting it and then wrinkling his nose. "Ugh."

"Hey, I'm wearing a red cape and a nightgown. Things could be worse," Brendon points out, scowling again. He glares around at the trees surrounding them, and tries to ignore a sudden urge to stamp his foot. "Awesome. Little Red Riding Hood, _awesome_."

"Don't worry, little lady," Spencer says, swinging the axe around in a circle with his wrist, trying to make good on his earlier claim that he's fucking Donatello. "I'm totally going to rescue you. With my woodcutting skills."

Brendon snorts, and he can feel the frown on his face starting to lessen, despite himself. "Who knew that all that dedicated _wrist exercising_ would come in handy, one day," he taunts, swinging the lantern between them idly, cocking a hip and playing up his new role a little.

"I did," Spencer says solemnly, grinning at Brendon from below his lashes, chin ducked down as he reholsters the axe. Brendon's throat closes up a little, which totally explains the small, strangled sound he makes. "I knew all along, those long hours of perfecting my technique would totally pay off."

"Hours, huh?"

"Yep." Spencer looks back up, and smirks. "Hours."

"You should have shared with the class," Brendon manages, tilting his chin, giving Spence a severe look.

"Oh _really_." Spencer's eyes snap, even in the low light of the lantern. "You - "

A growl, low and inhuman and menacing and _not far away_ , cuts off their painful attempts at flirting, and Brendon watches as Spencer's eyes go wide and scared. "Was that..." he starts, but Brendon shakes his head.

"Not me," he says, taking a step forward, reaching for him unconsciously. Spencer takes his hand and holds it _tight_ , grabbing for the axe again and drawing it out, holding it like a weapon in his free hand. "I, um. What is it?"

"We're in Little Red Riding Hood," Spencer reminds him, his voice dropping to a whisper as another, louder, _meaner_ growl emanates from the woods behind them. Brendon can't really tell where it's _coming_ from - the sound seems to bounce off of the trees surrounding them, echoing and traveling up and up and just growing _bigger_.

"Oh," Brendon breathes, squeezing his eyes shut for a second, opening them again and huddling into Spencer a little. He squints as his eyes adjust to the lantern light just below him - for a second there he thought he saw...

"Spence," he manages, his voice catching in his throat and dying. Spencer looks at him, and immediately looks in the same direction, and takes a step back at the way the lantern is reflecting light in two points not far away. Two points, growing closer. Two white eyes.

"Shit," Spence breathes, before he yanks on Brendon's hand, _hard_. "Shit, Bren, _run._ "

 

Spencer's pushed Brendon out in front of him but is keeping a hand on his back, for which Brendon is thoroughly grateful since it mostly keeps him from falling over or freaking out about Spencer being eaten. There's the rush of wind in his ears as Brendon _runs_ , and runs and runs, sprinting through the trees, barely keeping up with the tiny winding path now that the lantern is flickering and guttering wildly from being jostled so much.

Behind him, he can hear Spencer's panting, and behind _that_ , there's the bowel-rattling sound of leaves rustling, a few more footfalls than can be attributed to the two of them. Brendon squeezes his eyes shut for a second as the air is split around them by an earth-shaking howl. "Oh god," he gasps, almost stumbling on a fallen branch, but Spencer's there, holding him up, pulling him back up into standing and basically _hauling_ him back into running, so that now they're side by side.

He's not sure, but he thinks that the small gust of air on the back of his ankles suddenly is warmer than it should be. "Shit," he whimpers, unable to keep himself from darting his hand out, grabbing onto Spencer's sleeve.

"Tree," Spencer gasps, just before the fallen log comes into view in the lantern light, and they both barely clear it, Brendon using it as a springing-board to jump a few feet out ahead. Somehow he manages not to let go of Spence, and he _pulls_ , sending them careening off the path a little bit, into the trees, just as something dark and _huge_ whooshes by.

 _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ , Brendon thinks, his mind a blind, searing blank of terror as he and Spencer crash through the underbrush. He can feel twigs and brambles cutting into his knees, his shins, but it's a shadow of real sensation, everything in his body is concentrating on moving him faster, _fasterfasterfaster_ , tugging Spencer along as he dodges tree branches and slides down carpets of leaves, stumbling and almost cartwheeling over a small cliff before Spencer grabs his cloak and pulls him back, pulls him back into all-out sprinting. Behind them, there's a crash, and then _another_ crash, and a pained yowl.

"It fell in," Spencer manages, looking back and giving Brendon a panicked look, one that Brendon hoped he'd never have to see again, and he grits his teeth and just moves _faster_ , unable to take the time to analyze why he's suddenly as _pissed off_ as he is scared.

He finally manages to steer them back up, onto the path, and for a long few minutes there's just the sounds of him and Spencer running, their footbeats and their panted breaths. Brendon's lungs are searing him, red-hot pain working up and out to his throat, his arms, every part of him, and he's starting to realize he can't keep up this pace forever.

"Spence," he gasps, but then he fucking _trips over a tree-root_ , fucking story of his _life_ , and the lantern goes flying out of his hands and crashes against a tree-trunk and they're both thrown into almost pitch-darkness. "Oh, shit," he whimpers.

Spencer accidentally yanks him forward, and falls as well, unable to stop moving in time. He groans, and halfway picks himself up as he crawls over to Brendon. "Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Brendon whispers shakily, grabbing for him, sitting up. The next few seconds are a haze of shaking hands, panted breaths as they check each other over, make sure nothing's broken, check in. "Sorry, I'm sorry," Brendon breathes, his chest hitching, as Spencer picks them both up. "The lantern."

"It's okay," Spencer assures him, both hands on his back, clutching at him. "It's...it's good, now it can't track us from the light. We just have to be quiet."

"Okay," Brendon whispers, clinging to Spencer for a second, unable to move his hands from Spencer's shoulder, his hair, where they've dug in. For a few seconds they just stand there, silent, trying to quiet their breathing and get their eyes used to the dark before they move again. Brendon can feel Spencer's heart beating wildly against his chest, he realizes suddenly, and he can feel Spencer's breath against his cheeks. He closes his eyes and swallows. "Hey, um." The hand on his back is rubbing comforting circles, the same thing Spencer does after shows. "Hey, I."

"Can you see now?" Spencer asks, cutting him off. Brendon opens his eyes and realizes hey, yeah, he can totally see Spencer's outline, the faint glitter of his eyes.

"Yeah," Brendon says, biting his lip against the wry smile that wants to crop up at that. _Yeah._ "You?"

"Yeah. Let's...just move slow, okay? Want me to go first?"

Brendon rests his cheek against Spencer's shoulder for a second, and nods. Eventually they ease out of clinging, and Spencer starts moving down the edge of the path, nearer to the trees, glancing back every few seconds to make sure Brendon's okay, Brendon's right there with him.

Brendon clings to him, a deathgrip on his hand and the other twined in the back of his shirt. They inch along, one step at a time, til Brendon can't see where they dropped the lantern anymore.

Above them, the moon is high and full and he keeps catching glimpses of it, slivers between the branches of all the stretching trees. Brendon shivers and huddles up next to Spencer, really wishing his clothes hadn't morphed into something so _short_ for this story. Spencer's busy hiding them behind a tree, peeking his head out around it as he scans the forest for signs of danger.

Brendon would laugh if he wasn't sure the move was _actually necessary_.

He creeps with Spencer from one tree to the next, pretty sure that if anyone were able to watch them, they'd look like two characters on an old cartoon. Brendon doesn't even care, though; in front of him, Spencer isn't breathing so hard anymore, and when he turns around to check on Brendon, his eyes have lost the abject terror Brendon saw in them not long ago, replaced instead by a more familiar determination.

Ten, fifteen minutes go by. Brendon's shivering has ratcheted up to sort of constant, but he's not about to bring any attention to that, so long as they're still stuck in the woods among trees and things that want to eat them. He shudders once, hard, and clutches onto Spencer's arm a little tighter than he had.

"You okay?" Spencer asks as he turns around, giving Brendon a concerned look.

Brendon nods, but his teeth start chattering traitorously, and Spencer tsks and wraps both arms around him, rubbing his arms for warmth. "Bren," he murmurs, sympathy in his voice. "Here, hang on."

Brendon whimpers quietly as Spencer lets go, but otherwise doesn't respond, and just leans on him while Spencer shifts and shrugs his arms out of his coat. "Now _you'll_ get cold," he grumps, barely above a whisper, but Spencer just shakes his head.

"I have on a big huge sweater, I'm not cold," he breathes, curling back around Brendon, wrapping the huge coat around his middle, tying the sleeves off around his waist. It takes everything in him for Brendon not to groan at the relief of having his legs covered, and then Spencer ducks down and fastens the toggles together where he can, and holy shit, after a few minutes Brendon can almost feel his calves again.

"You're a genius and I love you," Brendon whispers before he thinks, leaning in against Spencer before he can talk himself out of it. Spencer hesitates, tenses for a second or two, before he wraps his arms back around Brendon and they stay like that for another minute or two, letting Brendon warm up. Eventually Bren pulls away a little, tugging his hood up onto his head and giving Spencer his best all-business look. "Okay, I'm good."

"You sure?" Spencer murmurs, his breath still a hot burst against Brendon's cheek. It makes him shiver, and he ducks his head for a second before he nods. "Okay," Spencer says, reaching to grab for Brendon's hand, squeezing it comfortingly. "We're still gonna go slow."

Brendon nods, and reaches down to tie Spencer's coat around his waist tighter, and takes his hand again, squeezing it til their knuckles are white and bloodless. They start moving again, cautiously, slowly, and Spencer wordlessly points out potential trip hazards and the next trees they're going to move to.

Brendon follows along silently, biting hard on his lip to keep his teeth from rattling, ridiculously grateful that at least in this story, he wasn't wearing any sort of heel. Spencer accidentally shuffles through a pile of leaves, and the noise echoes off the trees around them. Brendon sucks in a breath and smacks his thigh, frowning and gesturing to the forest floor.

Wincing as he nods, Spencer pauses, huddling them up against the nearest tree, waiting to see if there's any fall-out.

"...Do you think we lost - " he begins, but Spencer shakes his head, gives him an urgent look.

"Don't say it," he hisses. Brendon gives him a quizzical look, but doesn't have it in him to really confront this new weird issue Spencer's somehow found time to develop, so he shrugs a shoulder and waits, til Spencer starts moving again.

They pick their way from tree to tree, staying within sight of the path, moving as quietly as they can across the forest. At one point an owl hoots sleepily high above their head, and Spencer jumps so high than Brendon quickly has to clap a hand over his mouth to muffle his giggles. The unamused look Spencer gives him just makes him laugh _harder_ , until he's teary-eyed and shaking with it, and Spencer's smiling a bemused little smile as well. "Okay?" Spence asks, when it looks like he's tapering off.

Brendon nods, and sniffs, and wipes his eyes. "I won't let the owls get you," he whispers, grinning as Spencer rolls his eyes. They take off again, winding their way from one tree to the next, for an interminable amount of time.

The trees all look the same, is the problem. And Brendon knows they're following the path, and everything, but it's just. ...It's _boring_ , the same pattern of look-run-hide-wait, look-run-hide-wait, repeated over and over and over until he just wants to smack his head into the next tree, for the novelty. He doesn't do well with repetition, patterns, holding steady - that's why he gave up the drums.

Not that Brendon isn't, y'know, _enjoying_ this whole experience, being wrapped up in various ill-fitting clothes and not being able to walk like a normal person since Spencer's coat is wafting around his ankles like a bell made out of scratchy fur. Or that Spence keeps being weirdly solicitous, which means he's pretty much _always got a hand on Brendon_ , somewhere. Not that Brendon isn't just _totally relishing_ how his teenage crush has clawed its way back up to the forefront of his mind and his brain keeps blanking out for a few seconds every time Spencer pushes him up against a tree and hovers over him.

Because, y'know, obviously it's every guy's dream to be dressed up like Little Red Riding Hood in a forest at night, trying desperately not to pop a boner because his best friend keeps _looming_ , added alongside the constant danger of being eaten by a big huge wolf. Brendon frowns and wishes he could _kick_ something, but of course he can't, because the wolf might hear and then he might get killed. He's pretty sure other rock stars don't have to deal with this shit.

He keeps quiet, seething silently about the _unfairness_ of the situation, and _how slowly_ they're progressing, until Spencer shushes him for the fourth time for fucking _stepping on a leaf_ , and then Brendon loses it. "Dude, it has been like an _hour_ ," he hisses, not as quietly as he could. "An _hour_ and the wolf hasn't shown back up."

"Shut up," Spencer hisses, darting glances around them skittishly, and fucking - if Brendon hadn't already had enough of Spencer's constant low-level paranoia, he _fucking has now_.

He gives Spencer a filthy look, and stomps back over to the path (as much as he can stomp, considering how the coat around his middle is restricting his movements). He turns and gives Spencer the widest, fakest smile he can manage, and does jazz hands and shimmies a little for about ten seconds, before he just flips him off and continues walking down the path, hunching in under his hood.

He feels better, weirdly enough. He attributes it to the jazz hands.

After a couple of minutes of walking, Spencer reappears at his side, arms folded tight around his midsection. Brendon glances over at him from under the hood, and makes a face at Spencer's supremely pissed-off expression. "Mature," Spencer mutters.

"Sorry I didn't want to play James Bond anymore," Brendon shoots back, crossing his own arms, kicking at a convenient twig in his way. They walk like that for a few minutes more, both their own little contained units, and slowly Brendon feels all the self-righteous anger he'd been building up beginning to seep away. He chances a quick look over at Spencer, and bites his lip.

Spence just looks...really young, and dejected, despite the sudden reappearance of the beard. He's kicking his toes against the leaves that have wandering onto the walking path, and Brendon can see how his shoulders are hunched up around his ears. The sweater he's wearing reminds Brendon forcefully of that henley Spence spent pretty much the entire last tour bumming around in, and all of a sudden he's homesick and guilty-feeling and still sort of pissed off.

But mostly he just wants to make Spencer stop looking like that.

Brendon frowns a little, and then sidles up to him and slides an arm around his middle, leaning his head on Spencer's shoulder while they walk. "Sorry," he mutters, squeezing the arm around him. "I'm a dick sometimes."

Spencer gives him a wary little look, and then sighs and puts his arm around Brendon's shoulders after a couple of seconds, pulling him in. "Maybe I was a little too James Bond," he admits grudgingly, his mouth pressed to the fabric of Brendon's hood.

"Maybe," Brendon says, patting his side. "I think I saw you do a tuck and roll at one point. I'm just saying."

"Did not!" Spencer squawks, forgetting to whisper for a second, and then he looks around at the trees guiltily, like they're going to judge him. "Anyway, you did jazz hands."

"And they were amazing," Brendon tacks on, digging his fingers between Spencer's ribs, smirking as Spence squirms and tries to get away. " _Amazing_ jazz hands."

"Sure," Spencer says, obviously humoring him. "Best jazz hands ever. Never to be equaled."

"Thanks," Brendon replies, holding his free arm out wide, taking in the praise as his due. After half a minute of walking like that, he has to drop his arm, needing the hand to hitch up Spencer's coat around his waist. He's fiddling with it, trying to figure out how to tie the sleeves around himself one-handed and mostly failing, as he starts talking again. "So, when the sun's up, d'you want to - "

He cuts off, startled, as Spencer tightens his grip on Brendon's shoulders, clutching high on his arm. Brendon looks up, and curls back a little - there, in front of them, the forest suddenly drops away into a clearing.

The moon is shining down on it, bright, and the clearing is at the very trough of a valley, surrounded by trees and hills on all sides. The pathway they're on winds right through the middle.

The phrase "sitting ducks" comes to mind.

"We can just," Spencer starts, frowning nervously, his eyes darting around the perimeter of the clearing, "we can just keep to the edges, go around with the trees."

Brendon frowns, and squints, and takes a couple of steps forward. "I don't think it's..." he starts, before trailing off, squirming out of Spencer's grip as he goes forward to inspect. He gets right up to the edge of the clearing, til he can feel the white-blue rays of moonlight touching lightly over his skin, his cape. He tilts his head up to it, for a second, lets it sink in.

Then he looks down, and gingerly tests the grassy ground with his foot.

It sinks right in, almost to his ankle.

Squawking softly, Brendon tugs his foot free with a squelch, and watches as water quickly fills the hole his shoe made in the marsh. _Great_. He stomps back to Spencer and turns, gazing back out at the clearing with a fierce scowl on his face. "It's a fucking lake," he hisses, folding his arms. "A fucking _lake_."

"It...what?"

Brendon can't help how his hands flail a little. "It's a lake! It's not grass or a clearing, it's all fucking _water_ and there's just grass growing in it! It tried to eat my foot!"

"But...the path goes through it," Spencer says, frowning.

"Dude, didn't you see Lord of the Rings?" Brendon asks, exasperated. "It's like with Gollum and the dead people in the water."

"Oh." Spencer pauses. " _Shit_ , that part was creepy, I'd almost forgotten about it."

"Yeah." Brendon huffs, and leans against Spencer a little, still glowering at the clearing and hating everything it stands for. "Fucking...fuck, man."

"Well...okay," Spencer says feebly, gesturing towards the trees. "So we just...go around."

Brendon's still staring out at the clearing, glowering like it's offended him on a deeply personal level, chewing on his lip. "No, y'know?" he finally says, canting one hip to the side, knocking it with Spencer's. "Let's just. Fuck going around, I'm tired and I don't want to get my legs cut to fuck more than they already are. We can just be quiet and fast and get across it, right?"

Spencer gives him a dubious look, and then peers out over the clearing again. "Dude. ...Brendon, I don't know. That's - "

"We haven't even _heard_ the wolf for forever," Brendon wheedles, raising his eyebrows and pouting faintly. "I think we can do it."

Spencer's still gazing out at the clearing, at the little pale path snaking right down the middle of it, straight and narrow and right in the open. "Dude, that's." He rubs a hand over his face, and laughs silently. "Bren, this is such a bad idea, seriously."

"We'll just be really quiet," Brendon argues, giving Spencer the widest, saddest eyes he knows how to make. "And it'll be like. Four times faster, seriously, and we'll get to the other side and I'll let you be James Bond for _hours_. Okay?"

Spencer gives him a long, hard look. Then he sucks his teeth, and looks back out towards the clearing, still frowning a little. "Hours?" he asks, sounding resigned. His eyes are still a little troubled, so Brendon can't really feel very victorious for having made him cave. He reaches out to rub Spencer's arm.

"Yeah, hours, promise." Brendon squeezes his arm, and then bends down to start undoing the coat from his waist - he'll never be able to run in it. "It'll be okay, Spence."

"Okay," Spencer says, not sounding quite convinced as he crouches down to help Brendon with the toggles. He hands the coat up to Brendon, who shrugs it on over his cloak, not bothering to stick his arms through the sleeves. "You're going first," Spencer orders. "And don't wear the hood, it's too bright. Don't run, just walk fast, and don't look back, okay?"

The first thoughts that flit through Brendon's mind are vaguely to do with Orpheus and Lot and pillars of salt, but those aren't exactly encouraging, so he shoves them away. He reaches for Spencer's hand, since it's helped them both stay alive thus far, and he squeezes it gently. "In bocca al lupo," he murmurs to Spence, who laughs a little - it's the same phrase Brendon's high school band/drama teacher used to say, before any performance began. Brendon still says it before shows, just before they go on. _Into the mouth of the wolf._

 

What happens next is: nothing.

Brendon holds onto Spencer's hand and deftly avoids every twig and puddle. They both make it out onto the path, out where it's just built-up sand and dirt in a glorified swamp, and the two of them hunch over a little, trying not to attract too much attention as they scurry along.

After only a couple of minutes, they're halfway across the lake. And even though he knows it's stupid, Brendon _has_ to stop, he has a stitch in his side from hunching over and it feels like it's threatening to invade one of his lungs. "Owww," he breathes, trying to rub it out. From behind him, Spencer reaches for and takes the basket, and pulls up as well.

"Cramp?" he asks, sucking in a breath.

"Yeah," Brendon groans softly, twisting and stretching to try to alleviate the pain. He glances back at Spence, who's red-cheeked and darting his eyes everywhere, looking for potential trouble. "You okay?" he thinks to ask suddenly.

"Yeah," Spencer says, turning to give him a slightly surprised look. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"That's good," Brendon nods, and he reaches into the basket for the skein of water Gerard insisted Mikey put in there. He uncaps it and takes a long swig, and then hands it over to Spencer, who's still checking things out, staring down the path the way they came, daring something to happen. "Drink," Brendon orders, trying to look fierce when really, he just wants a _nap_.

Spencer huffs and takes the water, gulping it down noisily, before he takes the cap from Brendon and puts it back in the basket. Brendon furrows his eyebrows at him, and pouts. "Did you leave me _any_?"

"A little bit," Spencer tells him, with a wry, lopsided grin. "If you get thirsty, we're surrounded by a lake."

"Dude, this is the dead-people lake from Lord of the Rings. No fucking way am I drinking from it," Brendon flares, flailing his arms a little, horrified at the _very idea_. "I'd get the plague and die."

"Jesus, Bren, I saved you some water. Settle down," Spencer hisses, tugging Brendon's arm back down, frowning at him. "Spaz."

"Yeah, well. _Dead people water_ ," Brendon hisses, totally justified in his tiny freak-out there and nobody will ever, _ever_ be able to tell him differently.

Spencer just _looks_ at him for a second, long enough for Brendon to start fidgeting. "Okay," Spencer sighs, putting his hands on his hips for a second, twisting to look all around them. "Guess we'd better start again."

"Yeah, probably," Brendon sighs, taking the basket back from Spencer, ignoring his protests and grabby-hands. "You have an axe, I want a prop," he tells him severely, clutching the basket to his chest. "Mine."

Spencer glances down at the axe on his belt, and subsides, taking it out of the holster and lovingly caressing the handle. "Yeah. I got the _best_ prop."

Brendon blinks, and is uncomfortable with how jealous he suddenly is of the axe handle. "Stop being creepy with your axe, it's inanimate."

"We understand each other," Spencer protests, holding the axe to him. "You're just jealous."

"The axe will never love you back," Brendon informs him sadly, patting his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"We don't need your - " Spencer starts, but he's interrupted by a thin, wailing howl.

They both immediately turn, eyes searching til they spot it - there, on the edge of the lake, at the end of the path from which they've just come, is a huge mass of fur and teeth and glittering eyes.

"Fuck," Brendon breathes, backing up a step into Spencer, just as the wolf snarls, and begins to bound down towards the path, hurtling in their direction. He's aware of Spencer already tugging on his arms, pulling him into movement, before he can pull his eyes away.

"Shit, oh shit," he hears Spencer pant, as they both pound down the path, running like _fuck_ for the other side of the lake, where the path gets swallowed up again by trees. They're so close, seriously _so close_. "If my last fucking words are about an _axe handle_ , I swear to god - "

"Less talking, more running," Brendon orders, passing him and grabbing on his shirt to try to get him to hurry up. He breaks one of Spencer's cardinal rules and looks back, and almost chokes on his breath - the wolf is gaining, rocketing towards them with bared teeth. It lets out a snarl that Brendon can _feel_ rattling in his bones, and he turns back around just in time to almost trip over his own feet, not taking into account the way the turf would change as soon as they made it out of the lake.

Spencer runs into him with a small _oof_ , and they barely manage to stay upright, mostly because Spencer doesn't let his momentum take them down and just uses it to pull Brendon up and careen further down the path, looking for a place to hide.

Brendon holds onto him for dear life, squeezing his eyes shut for a couple of seconds, letting Spencer sprint them along until he feels - oh god. That's _breath_ on his legs, and Brendon whips his head around just in time to see the wolf lunge for him.

He shrieks and darts out of the way, into Spencer, who nearly crashes into a tree - but Brendon's legs are still whole, the wolf _missed_ , it missed, it's still right behind them, _fuck_.

Brendon can feel his breath welling up in his chest on a sob, but he's panting too hard for it to get out. He shoves Spencer higher up on the path and looks back, at the wolf that's seriously just - oh fuck, just half a step behind, four times the size of both him _and_ Spence. He can see its tongue lolling out of its mouth, the way its teeth are _wet_ , the way its eyes don't actually have pupils, they're just a solid white.

He recoils, and puts on a burst of speed, and is struck by a germ of an idea - quickly, Brendon turns and fucking _hurls_ the basket at the wolf, watching as the contents come spilling out in just enough time to crack and break all over its snout.

There's an earsplitting roar, and Brendon shouts his relief as the wolf _stops_ , swiping at it nose, trying to get Gerard's leftover soup out of its fur and its eyes. He keeps running, but watches, lagging behind Spencer a little to see just how effective his plan was.

" _Brendon_ ," Spencer shouts, sounding fucking pissed. Brendon whips his head around guiltily, waves to Spencer, who's about twenty feet up. "There are houses!" he says, pointing up ahead, around a curve of trees that Brendon can't see past. "Hurry the fuck up!"

Brendon nods and starts running again, biting his lip and putting on speed as he hears another howl behind him, a low, rumbling growl as the wolf pounces back onto the trail. Brendon realizes, his body going cold, that what he's really just managed to do is _piss the wolf off_.

"It's up, it's up," he shouts, waving for Spencer to start again, but Spencer just fucking _stands_ there like an asshole, waiting for Brendon to catch up before he starts running again, like he fucking _wants_ to get eaten. "Asshole," Brendon manages, before the tearing pain in his lungs means conversation is out and the two of them just have to _run_.

When he can focus on things other than the wolf behind them and the way his hips and legs are really starting to hurt from running so hard, Brendon notices that Spencer's right - he can see smoke in the near distance, dark shadows that might mean other people, shelter. They just have to hold out til they can -

" _Shit_ ," he gasps, nearly stumbling forward, caught and then jerked forward by the grip Spencer had on his hand. "What did - did I catch on a bramble?" he gasps, trying to catch a quick glance behind him.

"Don't - " Spencer starts, but it's too late - Brendon catches up the end of his cape, and stares at the gnarled ends from where something _bit_ it. He looks up, and realizes Spencer's staring in horror over Brendon's shoulder, and then he feels a hot, damp burst of breath on the back of his neck.

 _Oh_ , Brendon thinks. He closes his eyes.

And then he's yanked sideways, just as he feels a swoosh of air brush past his cheek. He collides with something warm, and he opens his eyes enough to recognize Spencer's sweater, just before Spencer runs them into the woods, off the path, hauling the two of them in a zig-zag between trees. "Are you - " Spencer starts, pulling Brendon in front of him, but then something plows into them both, bowling them both over.

Brendon's _fucking cape_ gets stuck over his _fucking head_.

By the time he manages to pull it off, Spencer's pushed him up against a tree, and is crouching in front of him protectively, the axe dangling loose in his right hand. Brendon cranes and sees the wolf pacing not ten feet away, watching the two of them hungrily. "Spence," he breathes. "You - "

"Shut up," Spencer mutters, his grip tightening on the axe as the wolf growls again, deep and dark. "Just. I." Brendon reaches up to curl his hand around Spencer's ankle, and Spencer crouches a little more, pulling the axe up like he's a baseball player at bat.

The wolf snarls, and springs.

 

Brendon isn't sure what happens - he knows that Spence gets in a hit, and it's good enough that when the wolf jerks away, it almost takes Spence with it. He knows that Spencer barely gets his axe back, he remembers hearing the sick _thwock_ as whatever body part of the wolf the axe sunk into slowly lets the axe blade go.

He knows the wolf isn't dead, and he knows that the blood on Spencer's arms isn't all animal. He knows that even though he's doing his best to hide it, Spence is shaking like a fucking leaf.

But mostly he just knows that Spencer hauls him up and tells him to _run_ , and Spencer just fucking _saved them both_. So Brendon runs.

They make it back up onto the path, and Brendon keeps pace with Spencer, who's just all-out _sprinting_. Brendon wonders if it's some sort of adrenalin rush, or shock, or something serious, but he mostly tries to keep up, glancing around them as they start to run past clearings and small gardens and, eventually, outbuildings and the beginnings of a little community.

Spencer doesn't seem intent on stopping, but Brendon stays behind him and looks around. He doesn't see any people - all the buildings seem _deserted_. He blinks, and winces as he passes by the first actual house.

Or - well, what _was_ the first actual house. Brendon slows down so he can sort of see the bare bones of where it was. One corner still has a smoldering wall and some of the thatched roof, but the rest of it is in ashes, black and smoking, curling up towards the sky. Behind the house, Brendon can barely see, is a small, well-kept hayfield, the straw piled up in stacks ready to harvest.

He glances behind, but he doesn't see the wolf anywhere, so he breathes out relievedly and yells ahead. "Spence!"

No response. But he can still sort of almost _see_ Spencer, still running like a damn fool, so he keeps going, increasing his pace so that he can eventually catch up.

A few minutes later, he passes another house on his left. Or, again, another _shell_ of a house. This one isn't on fire, though - it looks instead like a hurricane hit, or a tornado. It looks like a bomb went off inside the house, actually, and scattered the walls and furniture and roof down like a hail of splintered wood in a 30-foot radius around where the walls once stood. Brendon stops, for a second, and winces at the casual destruction, the way it looks like it _just happened_.

Seriously, no _wonder_ there's nobody left in this little village, if things keep on exploding and burning down.

Brendon glances around himself, squinting until he can see the hint of Spencer's outline far up ahead, and then he trots over to where a rustic log fence skirts the perimeter of the land around the debris. On the ground near the yard entrance is a big hollowed-out log - Brendon realizes after a minute that it was a mailbox.

He takes a couple of steps into the yard and freezes, stopping dead in his tracks as he gets hit by a wave of terror and nausea and loss. It's weird - Brendon's no stranger to moments of intense panic, but this isn't at all like how keyed up and freaked out he gets before big shows. The sensations crawling their way into his skin aren't coming from inside _him_ , like normal, they're not starting deep in his belly and radiating outward.

This is like something's outside him trying to get _in._

Brendon gasps out the breath he was holding, and looks around wildly - he's still alone, in the yard. He glances down and notices his hands are shaking, badly, and he manages to think very clearly to himself _yeah, fuck THIS_ before he wrenches himself off the spot he's frozen to and stumbles back outside the yard.

As soon as he's on the other side of the fence, the feelings vanish.

Brendon shudders and sucks in a series of deep breaths, trying to get his heart rate back to something approaching normal, and gazes back at the destroyed house. He's pretty sure that half-smeared red handprint on what's left of the door is going to be something he can't forget.

He waits until his hands have mostly stopped shaking before he starts running again.

After another minute or two of playing catch-up he almost runs over Spencer, who's standing outside the next house, gazing up at it with a blank look in his eyes. Brendon peers at him curiously, then looks up at the house.

At least _this_ one is standing. It's a modest little brick thing, probably just one story with an attic, with marigolds winding up the pathway to the front door. "This one's good," Spencer murmurs. "Solid. It won't be able to get in."

"Yeah?" Brendon says, glancing over at him, and then gazing back at the house. "Well, cool. Come on, let's get inside before anything worse happens."

"Yeah," Spencer says, nodding. He's holding his right arm like it hurts him, Brendon realizes, and he winces as he takes Spencer's good arm and leads him up the pathway to the house. He kicks open the unlocked door and escorts him in, bullying him into slumping down onto the well-worn sofa. He locks the door behind him, and then Brendon searches the house, lighting all the oil lamps and locking all the windows and doors he can find.

The house is...weird. More modern than Gerard's, so that at least he doesn't have to go outside and get water from a well, but there certainly isn't a refrigerator or a microwave, and he's sort of worried about the bathroom situation.

Brendon goes into the kitchen and comes back with a bar of soap, and a bowl full of water, and a towel. "Hey," he murmurs, coming over to the sofa, gently prodding Spencer into sitting up a little, shifting onto his back. Spencer blinks his eyelids heavily, and leans his head back against the sofa. Brendon watches him, concerned, and then bites his lip and starts wiping his arms off, starting with the right one, the one he's favoring.

Spencer hisses, but doesn't move his head, so Brendon keeps at it, slowly wiping away the flaking blood til he uncovers four long, thin gashes on the meat of Spencer's forearm. "Spence," he breathes, sad and guilty, wincing at how red and angry the cuts look in the glow of the oil lamps.

"S'okay," Spence whispers, his voice harsh and his breathing shallow. "It's - it doesn't hurt much."

"Liar." Brendon worries at his lower lip, and then he dips the washcloth in the water and wrings it out, just continuing to clean. It's about all he can do, really.

And actually, after a few minutes, it helps. It helps Brendon check out a little, mentally, helps him forget about running and the wolf and almost being eaten. And it seems like it helps Spencer - he's getting cleaned up, obviously, but Brendon's being as careful and gentle as he possibly can as he wipes off Spencer's arms, and he pauses and listens to Spencer's breathing, by now deep and even, before he crawls up almost onto Spencer's lap and applies the cloth to his neck and his face.

Spencer whimpers, which isn't a sound Brendon's used to hearing from him, and turns his face toward the cloth, toward Brendon. His eyes are shut, and his chin is resting on his own shoulder lazily, so Brendon doesn't feel very weird or guilty about just _looking_ , taking Spencer in, gazing at his little nose and his arms and the way his eyelashes fan when his eyes are closed and the way he's - huh, he's gone really, really _really_ pale.

Brendon blinks, and shakes Spencer's shoulder. "Spence?"

"Mm?"

"Spence, you okay?"

"Mm."

"No, hey, open your eyes," Brendon says, prodding and poking until Spencer shifts and grumbles, and finally opens his eyes, frowning at Brendon.

"What?" he grumps, squinting at Brendon, eventually blinking his eyes open a little more than halfway. Brendon stares at him for a second, and then sits back - Spencer's eyes are. ...Not normal.

They're red and bloodshot, but they're also - they're also barely even _blue_ anymore, they're dark almost to the point of being black. "Spence," Brendon breathes. "Spence, seriously, _are you okay_?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Spencer replies, sounding a little annoyed. He closes his eyes though, and Brendon notices the way Spence presses his mouth up, in a tight, nervous line. Brendon glances down at a touch to his cloak-covered thigh, and notices Spencer's fingers spidering pale and shaky along it. After a few seconds, Spencer's hand stills, and Brendon watches nervously as Spencer's index finger starts to trace letters on the red cloth.

H-E-L-P

Brendon sucks in a breath, and accidentally whimpers when he lets it out. He can't help clutching Spencer a little, hugging him tight for a few seconds before whispering, "What's going on?"

Spencer shivers and pulls away, keeping his eyes shut tight as he reaches up to trace the claw marks (deep and red and angry-looking, still) with his hand. Then he points to his head. "It got in," he whispers, barely audible.

Brendon remembers the weird external wave of nauseated panic he felt at the second house and shudders. "Oh, fuck," he breathes, curling up closer, holding tighter to Spence. "Is it - "

"No, in the woods still," Spencer says, anticipating the question. He shivers and stills under Brendon's hands, patting his thigh lightly. "Two-way street. I can see into it, too. I think it saw the house though, and you, before..."

He sucks in a breath, and cuts himself off, recoiling away from Brendon a little. "Fuck."

"What?" Brendon asks, worried. Spence shakes his head, which, _what_ , and finally Brendon reaches his limit for fucked-up cross-species _Exorcist_ bullshit and shakes Spencer's shoulders, pushing him back into the sofa. "Fucking _what_ , Spence, tell me what's going on!"

Spencer shivers ( _god, he's so fucking pale, shit_ ) and opens his eyes, blinking at him for a second, and then there it is - a tiny shake of his head. "Spence," Brendon breathes, torn between a fierce _need_ to kill whatever's hurting him, and an equally fierce need to hit him on the head repeatedly.

Spencer sucks in a rattly breath, and Brendon bites his lip, his stomach rising up in his throat as he realizes Spencer's eyes are getting redder-rimmed, wetter. "It heard me," Spencer whispers finally, his eyes wide and worried.

"Can - what?" Brendon asks, before he glances down at the scratches on Spencer's arms and the way he's gone deathly pale, and puts two and two together. "Oh, fuck."

"We need to bar the doors and windows," Spencer mutters quietly, grabbing for Brendon's closest arm, gripping it with unnatural strength. "Douse all the lights and I'll get some firewood from outside so it can't get down the chimney."

"Yeah," Brendon murmurs, reaching up to brush the hair off Spencer's forehead, hovering there for a second, trying to keep his breaths and his hands from shaking too hard. "Yeah, okay. Is it - ?"

"Not long," Spencer manages, his jaw clenching down. "It's out of the woods. It's looking."

"Okay," Brendon nods, and he immediately breaks into action, barring the front door with two love seats and a bookcase, heading into the kitchen. Behind him, he can hear Spencer opening and banging open the windows.

"The windows have shutters. I've got the front room, just don't block the back door til I come around," Spencer yells from the front room, and Brendon sucks in a breath and starts moving _fast_ , not wasting time now that Spencer's getting desperate enough to start yelling.

He slams through the kitchen, pulling open the windows and yanking the outside shutters closed, locking the glass up behind them. He grabs the side-room and bedroom windows as well, and then when he runs back into the kitchen, Spencer's already taken care of barring the back door and is taking apart the bookshelf, using the long planks of wood to bar the windows a little better. He's found some nails outside - there's a small handful of them sitting on the windowsill.

Brendon glances around and then notices - the firewood. He grabs a couple of big pieces from the stacks Spencer has made, and throws them on the grate. He stretches until he manages to reach the bookshelf beside the fireplace, and tosses a couple of books on as well, tearing out pages and holding them to the still-glowing embers til they catch light and can be used to build the fire back up.

Once the fire is roaring, Brendon takes a couple of the smaller planks from the bookcase and puts them with the others. Then he steps back, and looks back over to Spencer, who's still messing with the barricade to the front door. "Spencer," Brendon says, moving the five steps it takes to get next to him, lay a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Hey. Spence."

"It's almost here - " Spencer says, through gritted teeth, and Brendon nods and tries to tug him away from the door, turn him away from it so Spencer's only looking at _him_.

"Okay," he murmurs, keeping his voice nice and even. "The front door looks good, and we've blocked up the windows and all the entrances. What else can we - "

But then Spencer gasps, and freezes, and behind them both, the front door jumps as _something_ on the other side slams into it with all its might. "Oh, _fuck_ ," Spencer moans, sinking into Brendon a little, reaching up to clutch his head.

 

Brendon has no idea what the _fuck_ is going on. He's got Spencer mostly on the sofa again, all curled up around him because it seems to help a little, Spencer doesn't thrash quite as much, though judging by the way his spine is tense enough to _shatter_ , Brendon's willing to guess he's still in a lot of pain.

Outside, it's like the house is trying to withstand a hurricane and a tornado and a blizzard all at once. Brendon has never heard the wind _roar_ before, but now he has. He can see, in the tiny gaps between slats in the window shutters, the bend and twist of trees, and the ominous sound of cracking and crashing not far away. It's like the entire world has decided to gang up on this one little house, and now all the elements are doing their damnedest to get in.

Underneath him, Spencer gasps and twitches a little. Brendon curls a hand up, cups his cheek, doesn't even _care_ anymore about being obvious because _fuck_ , he's never seen Spencer like this. "Spence, m'here," Brendon reminds him, murmuring into his ear. A bolt of lightning hits close enough outside that Brendon can _see_ the light, between the seams of the door and the slats of the shutters. Thunder breaks over the house like the world is tearing in two, and Spencer _shakes_.

Brendon takes his hand, and hangs on. "Hey, hey," he breathes, curling up closer, twining their legs together. "Hey, remember the lightning storms we had back home? We'd get out on the roof of my apartment building and watch them in the desert, it's just like that, remember? Spence?"

Spence shivers, and closes his eyes, and turns his face towards Brendon, a little. "Yeah," Brendon breathes, encouraged, smiling a tiny bit as he presses their foreheads together. "And Brent got so freaked out when they'd get even a little bit close. And remember the time in Tulsa, with the thunderstorms? Ryan said he saw a funnel cloud and we all got out and danced around in the rain til we were soaked, because none of us had had showers in a week."

"Beckett got out his shampoo," Spencer manages, frowning with the effort, his forehead stitching up in concentration.

"Oh yeah!" Brendon says, almost grinning. "Dude, I'd almost forgotten about that."

"And you threatened to take your pants off," Spencer continues, opening his eyes a little, "and Ryan and I told you we'd..."

"Take all my Red Bulls and give them to the homeless," Brendon supplies, laughing softly, rubbing the back of Spencer's neck before he realizes that Spencer isn't really breathing. "Spence?" There's no answer, and Brendon shakes him a little. " _Spence_."

He finally exhales, raggedly, and _immediately_ Spencer's face just crumples. Brendon looks on, bewildered, as Spencer sags into him, face pressed tight to his shoulder. Twenty seconds later, Spencer's shoulders start to shake, and Brendon wraps both arms around him and just holds on, totally unprepared for seeing Spencer Smith cry. It's only the second time ever.

"Spence, what - " he starts, but Spence just shudders, and clings to Brendon harder, clutching at his cape like it's the only thing keeping him from drowning. "Spence."

"It's in my _head_ ," Spencer manages, voice thick and choked, shaking as another round of thunder rocks the house. "It keeps _showing_ me."

Brendon pulls him in tighter and glances around the room, watching the oil lamps flicker and almost sputter out, watching the front door bend and almost buckle as it's slammed into repeatedly.

"Showing you what?" he hisses to Spencer, watching the door, tensing up every time something hits it. There's another slam, and then the scraping sound of claws against wood, and Brendon flinches. "Showing you _what_ , Spence?"

There's a long pause. Brendon worries that Spencer isn't breathing again, but then there's a small, unmistakable " _Ryan_ " being muffled into his coat, and Brendon winces and hugs him tighter. "And Jon. They." But the rest of the sentence gets stuck in Spencer's throat, and he ducks his head back down into the crook of Brendon's neck and just _sobs_.

" _Their houses_ ," Spencer gasps finally, his fists tightening in Brendon's cape. "And I couldn't stop, I just. I ran _past_ , and they were _in there_ , still, and we didn't get here in time, and - "

 _Oh._

Brendon's eyes start to prickle too, as he remembers the pile of ashes that was the first house, and the blast-zone that was the second house. The half-smeared blood on the door. He presses his fingertips to his left eyelid and presses down, _hard_ , needing the distraction.

"It keeps showing me, they weren't even expecting - they thought it was _us_ ," Spencer manages, barely getting out "Ryan was _smiling_ when he answered the door," before he breaks down again. "I was too late, I didn't even stop for him."

"Oh, Spence," Brendon murmurs, hugging him up tight, pressing a hand to the back of his head and just. Cuddling unabashedly, curling around him tight and just holding on. "Hey, hey," he sighs, rubbing Spencer's back, rocking them both back and forth a little, trying to ignore the way the front door is still bouncing on its hinges, the way the lightning outside is getting closer. "Spence, it wasn't them."

"Yes it - "

"No, I promise it wasn't them," Brendon murmurs, close to his ear. " _Our_ Ryan and Jon are both in Topanga right now, probably smoking a bowl and writing beach music and trying very, _very_ hard to be cool."

"Yeah, but this Ryan and Jon are - "

" - part of a story," brendon finishes for him. "Not the actual, living and breathing Ryan and Jon. Got it?" Brendon asks, frowning as he watches Spencer's eyes go glassy again. He reaches up, pats his cheek, maybe a little harder than is completely necessary, until Spencer's eyes sharpen back onto him again. "Got. It?"

Spencer nods, his eyes still only half open, his mouth a thin line of determination. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. It's - ow," he grumbles, shaking his head a little, before he suddenly cries out and curls up, forehead pressing hard against Brendon's shoulder. "Oh. Oh, _fuck_ ," Spencer gasps, reaching a hand out to twist in Brendon's shirt, keeping him anchored close. Brendon holds tight to him, checking him over frantically, trying to figure out what the hell's happening _now_.

"Spence, what - "

"Fucking with me," Spencer gasps, twitching a little, biting down hard on his lip as anothe spasm rocks through him. "Didn't like that - _ow_ ," he groans, reaching up to clutch at his head. "Owowowow _ow_."

Brendon watches in horror as Spencer writhes, twisting on the sofa as the pain flits across his body at random. His eyes are squeezed shut, but Brendon can still see how dark the circles are around them, how unnaturally pale Spencer's going. "Spence," he whispers, curling around him again, pressing close. "Spence, what's - "

"It won't let go," Spencer gasps, reaching a fluttering hand up to Brendon's elbow, holding on there. "It says it won't - "

"Oh, fuck _that_ ," Brendon snarls, pulling back to look down at Spencer, the bloodless hand on his own elbow, the way Spencer's lips are dry and cracked. He glances over at the door, at the way it rattles and the wind shrieks around it. "Fuck this shit," he says firmly, and then he leans forward and presses his hand to Spencer's cold cheek, his lips to Spencer's forehead, and he grabs the axe out of Spencer's belt.

In one smooth movement, Brendon slides off of the sofa and moves towards the door, knocking over the bookshelves and Spencer's carefully-placed planks, scowling as he pushes and pulls and finally gets one loveseat and then the second out of the way.

After five minutes of frantic manual labor, the door's finally free. A disgustingly well-timed crash of thunder and lightning makes the door and the doorknob rattle, and Brendon glowers at it, fierce enough that whatever's on the other side of it should be _dead_ , but of course he isn't going to count on that.

(On the sofa, Spencer's still twitching, shaking with pain - not writhing anymore but Brendon's a little worried that that's because he _can't_ , he's too tired.)

Brendon swallows, and thinks about praying but then realizes it wouldn't be so much a prayer to one deity as a mass text message to _all_ of them, so he shouts out to the universe to let him fucking take care of this, let Brendon fucking take care of _him_ , and wrenches open the door.

A gale-force wind knocks him back, and there's another crash of lightning, and Brendon can't help sucking in a breath as he notices the sleek, slithering outline of the wolf skulking around the front door. He pulls himself up, though, balancing on the axe handle for a second before hauling it up over his shoulder, sneering at the wolf. "Well? Fucking come on, this is what you _wanted_ , isn't it? Come on come on _come on_ ," he shouts, flipping the huge animal off, feeling like his heart is going to just explode from fear and rage and fear again.

There's a huge, malevolent growl that echoes through the room at that - Brendon glances over, and winces when he sees that Spencer's gone unnaturally still, eyes glassy and open to the ceiling. He turns his attention back to the door, to the way the wolf is hovering just outside, rearing back on its hind legs a little and then crouching down, getting ready to spring.

Brendon cracks his neck, and makes sure his cape is tied on tight and is in no way in danger of falling in his eyes. And then he brings the axe up, swinging it in his hand, feeling its heft. He pulls back, and waits.

The wolf's eyes are white as lightning, crackling just the same as the sky outside as it pounces.

Brendon closes his eyes, and swings.

 

When he opens his eyes five seconds later, Brendon is frankly _shocked_ to find himself alive. His hands are empty, so he checks himself over pretty thoroughly, and then once that's done he glances over a couple of feet and nearly jumps out of his skin because there - in the _middle_ of the living room - is the huge wolf, slumped lifeless on the floor, with the axe sticking out of its head. Brendon's standing over it, oddly victorious, his bright red cape snapping in the wind from outside that is rushing through the house.

It almost looks like one of those unfunny Halloween props, Brendon thinks, except Brendon remembers the initial tension, and then release, as the blade sliced through the skullbone. He doesn't think he'll be forgetting that one soon.

But just to make sure, Brendon pokes the wolf with his toe a few times. He doesn't get eaten.

And then there's a small groan from the couch - Brendon whirls around and feels instantly guilty for not immediately going to check on Spencer. "Oh, shit," he murmurs, hurrying over, giving Spencer his best sheepish expression. "Hey."

"Hey," Spencer says, rubbing the side of his head sluggishly. "Wow, that was fun."

"Boy, you're telling me," Brendon sighs. "You look like shit."

"I _feel_ like shit," Spencer agrees, slumping back onto the sofa, still way too pale and tired-looking. "Fucking wolf. Mikey wasn't kidding."

"Seriously, I wasn't expecting any Exorcist bullshit, what the hell was _that_?" Brendon wonders aloud, perching on the edge of the sofa and reaching a hand out to run through Spencer's hair gently. Spence hums and closes his eyes, tilting his head up into Brendon's hand, like a cat.

"I don't want to go on that ride again," Spencer breathes plaintively, cracking an eye open to gaze at Brendon. Brendon just tsks and ruffles his hair, before getting up and moving back over to the wolf carcass in the middle of the room. "Um."

"Well it's not a throw rug," Brendon reasons, shrugging a shoulder before he reaches down to grab one of the wolf's hind legs. It's rough going at first, but eventually, Brendon manages to tug and pivot until the body has tumbled outside, out of the house. He wipes his hands and goes back in, making _sure_ to lock the door behind him. "There."

"That was exhausting, and I didn't even do anything," Spencer observes. He's managed to sit up a little on the sofa, and isn't looking so _deathly_ pale anymore, so Brendon gives him a wide smile.

" _Yeah_ , you didn't," Brendon agrees, flopping down onto the sofa beside him. "Slacker."

"Fuck you, I was possessed. Were _you_ possessed? No," Spencer says, tilting his chin a little, giving Brendon a tiny smirk. The effect is somewhat marred by the huge yawn that threatens to crack Spencer's jaw just then, and Brendon snickers. "Shut up," Spencer grumbles, shifting so that he's leaning against Brendon's side. "I'm fucking tired."

"Me too," Brendon admits, resting his cheek on Spencer's hair for a second, before he gets an idea and shrugs Spence off, standing and scrambling for the bedroom. It's a seriously plain room, but whatever, he is a _genius_.

When he hauls the mattress into the living room a few seconds later, Spencer bursts into appreciative laughter, and even slow-claps for him as Brendon wheezes and drops it down in the middle of the floor. "There," he gasps, chest heaving. "Bed." He runs back into the bedroom and gathers the assorted linens, and then runs back to the living room, where Spencer's already lying face-down, spread-eagled on the mattress. "Hey!" he squawks.

" _Bed_ ," Spencer whispers reverently, curling up to the mattress like it's just given him the best sex ever. Brendon rolls his eyes, and tosses a blanket onto Spencer's head, relishing the muffled yelp. He takes advantage of the way Spencer rolls off the bed to drape the sheet on, and then flops down onto it himself.

"Mmph, _bed_ ," he sighs, beaming down at Spencer, who's giving him a filthy look from the floor. "What are you doing down there?"

"I don't know," Spencer says calmly, before he slides back up onto the mattress and immediately goes for Brendon's ribs, poking him til he's gasping laughter, fighting for air. "What _was_ I doing on the floor, Brendon Urie?"

"I don't know, maybe it's a drummer thing," Brendon tells him seriously, grabbing for his hands and catching one, squeezing his fingers tight. They tussle for a few more seconds until Brendon manages to pin Spencer's other hand, and then the two of them just lie there, snickering quietly, just pleased to be _alive_.

Brendon can't help the fond smile he gives Spencer, the way he looks him over carefully. "Okay?" he asks.

Spencer rolls his eyes, but shuffles closer, a little. "Okay," he answers. "You?"

"One-hundred percent awesome," Brendon tells him, draping his outside arm over Spencer comfortably, reaching down to try to pull the blanket higher up on himself. He squirms and grumbles until Spencer huffs and takes pity, tugging the blanket up _for_ him.

Brendon watches as Spencer closes his eyes - the shadows there are still way too dark, but at least Spencer's got some of his color back. "Big spoon or little spoon?" he yawns tiredly.

"Mmph." Spencer rubs his eyes with his fingers, and then stretches out for a second, before going pliant against him. "Too tired to be big spoon."

"Oh, _awesome_ ," Brendon breathes, cracking one eye open to watch as Spencer shuffles around and grabs Brendon's arm, hauling it around his middle comfortably. He hardly _ever_ gets to be big spoon with Spencer, Spence must've really felt like shit earlier.

Brendon reflects on that for a second, and frowns, tightening his arm around Spence's middle. "Good?"

"Good."

He can't help it, Spencer is a warm, sleepy weight beside him, one that's curling up in his arms in a way that Brendon wouldn't have predicted, so Brendon has to just. Drop his lips to the back of Spencer's shirt, over the top bump of his spine. He holds on and holds on and holds on, feeling the rise and fall of Spence's chest, the tickle of Spencer's hair on his own nose. As soon as Spencer's breathing has leveled out into something deep and painless, Brendon reaches down and finds one of Spencer's hands and squeezes it, not closing his eyes til he's threaded Spencer's fingers with his own.

It only takes him moments to fall asleep, after that.


	6. the sixth story

Brendon wakes up feeling cold and confused - there's unfiltered sunlight streaming in through a bare window, directly into his eyes. "Mmph, Spence, close the fucking curtains, God," he grumbles, rolling over and tugging the blanket up over his head. He can still _feel_ the sunlight on him, and Spencer is being an unresponsive _jerk_ , so Brendon reaches behind him to try to poke him. "Spence. _Speeeeeeeeeence_."

But behind him, where Spencer _should_ be, there's nothing but air. Brendon rolls back over and grudgingly opens his eyes, still shrouded from the world by the blanket. Sure enough, he can see sunlight still filtering down onto him.

It takes him a few seconds before he remembers that the house made of bricks didn't have any open windows. He sits up abruptly, taking in his surroundings, making sure nothing in this story is about to eat him. And then he looks down.

" _Fuck_ ," he spits. Frilly nightgown. _Of course_.

"Did you have a good night's rest?"

Brendon jumps, startled, and immediately turns to his side. There, hunched over in a rocking chair near the bedside table, is -

"Sister _Dyer_?" Brendon squeaks, incredulous.

Georgina Dyer lived with her husband, Herbert, exactly four houses down and across the street from the Uries for Brendon's entire childhood. They were the only other LDS family on the street and as such, Brendon had to spend a ridiculous amount of time during his adolescence shambling down to the Dyer residence with a casserole, or a new church video, or the next week's Relief Society lesson so his mom didn't have to make the trip.

Which wouldn't have been bad, except Sister Dyer wasn't exactly Brendon's biggest fan. She liked his brothers and sisters well enough, but Brendon was always too squirmy in sacrament meetings, he always sang too loud in Primary, and he didn't show the proper respect for her cactus garden. Tensions between the Urie and Dyer household came to a head one Sunday after Sister Dyer _smacked_ Brendon during the CTR class for seven-year-olds, and didn't resolve themselves until after Brendon had become a teenager. Just in time for him to get roped into spending most of his Saturday mornings doing yard work for them.

He didn't even manage to save any money from it, because his mom made him work for a pittance since the Dyers were old and Mormon. Which, _whatever_ , Brother Dyer was an ex-Navy SEAL and could probably still bench-press more than Brendon. The whole thing was massively unfair and Brendon is still bitter.

"Um. Hi," Brendon says weakly, gaping at her. "...How are you?"

She blinks at him owlishly, and sets her knitting needles down into her lap. "As well as can be expected, for an old woman who has to look after a layabout who sleeps the morning away."

And, right, _there's_ the Sister Dyer Brendon remembers so fondly. He rolls his eyes despite himself, and starts to slide out of bed. "Gee, _I'm_ sorry," he mumbles sarcastically. He gets his feet on the ground and moves towards the wash basin in the corner - he knows it's stupid, but even though his present self is totally tidy and clean, he can still just _feel_ the grime and blood of the wolf, itching on his skin.

He gets halfway across the floor before his head is yanked back, jerking him back towards the bed. " _Ow_ , motherfucker," he yelps, instantly feeling guilty for cussing in front of an old lady (one who, in other circumstances, would already be on the phone _telling his mother_ ). He rubs the back of his neck and turns around to stutter some sort of apology at Sister Dyer, and then notices her small smirk, and the way he's still tethered to the bed by a dark, braided rope.

He then notices that the rope happens to be _attached to his head_.

Brendon blinks. "Fuck," he mutters, not feeling at _all_ guilty about that one, as he traces the long braid of hair from his head to the bed post to all the way across the room, dangling outside the open window.

 

At least he could swing an axe at the wolf. Brendon stares down at the lace monstrosity of the dress Sister Dyer forced him into and glowers, and folds his arms a little bit tighter across the front of his chest. Behind him, Sister Dyer finishes puttering around the circular room and clucking over...he doesn't even _know_ , specks of dust? A crease in the bed she had Brendon make and then re-make four times, til he got it just right?

It's the fucking weirdest thing - she doesn't seem to notice he's _Brendon_ , but she's still treating him with the same exasperation and low-grade annoyance as she used to.

"Well," she says, hauling herself upright, giving him a long-suffering look that makes Brendon's jaw clench, "I suppose this is as clean as you can manage." Brendon really, _really_ wants to flip her off. "I'm going into town, I'll be back this evening."

"Yay," Brendon drawls. "Don't hurry back on my account." To his surprise, she doesn't purse her lips or shake her fist or any other behavior he's come to associate with his occasional outbursts in her direction - instead she just looks smug. He realizes why a few seconds later, when she shuffles over to the window and gazes at him expectantly. "Oh, for - " he starts, folding his arms across his chest, glaring at her.

Her eyes narrow, and she points to the floor beside her. Brendon scowls at her for a few seconds more, then huffs and obeys, stomping over to her. Wordlessly, she hands him the end of his braid that's hanging out the window. Brendon grips it tight, sort of boggling at the heft and weight of it for a second before Sister Dyer puts a thin, spindly hand on his shoulder and hoists herself up onto the windowsill. Brendon gapes at her, and only has a second to react before she grabs the braid as well and wraps it around her arm, anchoring herself firmly.

He blinks, and then winces at the tug as she starts rappelling down. It's lucky the braid is twined around his hands and the post of the bed still, displacing most of her weight, otherwise the pressure would probably be killing him.

And that's how he stays for a minute or two. Brendon sighs and carefully wraps the braid around his forearm, trying not to jostle it (he doesn't want to give Sister Dyer any more reasons to yell at him, still a worryingly instinctual response), and moves so his back is to the window.

The inside of his one room is small, and spare. There's the bed, which takes up the bulk of the room (shit, does Sister Dyer _sleep here too_? Creepy), and there are shelves against a portion of the wall, filled with books. Brendon squints, and can barely make out a few of the titles, but the books mostly seem to be recipe books or the fairy tale's answer to Christian Fiction and fucking Chicken Soup for the Soul, and fuck _that_ shit. He has had enough of those goddamn books.

 

One time, when he was still at the shitty apartment back in Vegas, before Pete and getting signed and _everything_ , he and Spence and Ryan were hanging out at his place one evening after practice. Ryan was, of course, grousing about Brendon's lack of silverware and trying to make something more complicated than ramen in his tiny kitchen, Brendon was watching South Park (it was still a novelty at that point, getting to _watch South Park_ ), and Spencer was going through the boxes of shit Brendon still hadn't unpacked.

"Seriously, _so lazy_ ," Spencer bitched, as he opened another box.

"Your face, Spencer Smith," Brendon told him easily. "I don't want to unpack, I'm just going to be moving into a fucking mansion in six months when I'm a rock star."

"Six months," Ryan scoffed, shaking a spatula at them both critically. " _Four_ months," he corrected.

"Four months," Brendon said, grinning at Spencer's exasperated noises.

"For...jesus _christ_ , Brendon, how many copies of this book do you _have_?" Spencer grumbled, tugging three copies of _Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul_ out of one box. "There are more," he said, looking into the box dubiously, then up at Brendon, obviously waiting for an answer.

"Um."

Spencer dove back into the box, and came up with two more. "Dude. _Really_?"

"Look, shut up. I got, like, four copies for Christmas from church people and my grandparents. They all thought I was having a religious crisis or something," Brendon scowled.

"Oh." Spencer let the books drop back into the box, and frowned down at them like they'd personally offended him.

"Yeah."

"Well, they weren't wrong," Ryan pointed out. "I probably wouldn't call it a crisis, though. Emancipation, maybe."

"Conversion to the first church of holy rock and roll," Spencer supplied. He sat up on his knees and tossed a couple of the books onto Brendon's lap, smirking as Ryan opened one and almost immediately started snickering.

That night they'd stayed up til two, reading stories of inspiration and schlock out to each other.

Two weeks later, Ryan showed up in the middle of the night with a busted lip, a third of a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a mutinous expression, and he dragged Brendon and his books out past the city limits before pulling his car off the highway. He barely looked back to see if Brendon was following, before he started walking out into the brush.

They didn't walk long, maybe fifteen minutes. They doused the books with the Jack and Ryan produced a lighter from his jacket pocket, lighting each cover individually until they all started burning. Brendon watched as Ryan took a small keepsake box from inside his pocket, and a manila envelope that had been tucked underneath his shirt, in the back of his pants, and put them on the fire as well.

He didn't ask. Instead, he stood close enough that their shoulders touched, and after a few minutes of watching their stuff burn, Ryan got out a pack of cigarettes and shook one out, pulling it out of the pack with his teeth. He flicked the lighter a couple of times, a reflexive movement, before lighting the end.

He handed the lit cigarette over to Brendon, who brought his hand up in the usual _no, thanks_ gesture before thinking _well, why the hell not?_ He took the cigarette and sucked on the filter thoughtfully, only heaving the first couple of times, unable to keep himself from grinning even as his eyes watered, as he heard Ryan's muffled chuckles.

They both watched their stuff burn down into nothing, into ashes, and then they kicked sand over the fire until it didn't even smolder. Ryan clapped him on the shoulder as they walked back to the car, and Brendon laughed up into the clear desert sky, lighter and happier than he had been a few hours earlier.

 

"The braid!" Sister Dyer's familiar shrill breaks through, sending Brendon crashing back into the present. He sucks in a breath and quickly tightens his grip on the hair, which _was_ actually inching through his hand. "Pay attention to what you're doing!" she shouts up the tower, making Brendon roll his eyes and fight the urge to just _let go_ , even though he knows he'd probably get a broken neck from it. Whatever, it might just be worth it.

"Okay!" he yells down, "got it!" He can hear Sister Dyer's grumbles from where he's standing.

Brendon sighs, and goes back to surveying the room. There's really not much to see. Bed, check. Window, check. Ridiculously long braid of hair, check. Uninteresting books, check. There are a couple of boxes underneath the bed that might have potential, he'll have to look through those as soon as he isn't tethered to the window by a senior citizen.

Which is the fucking _weirdest_ thing that's happened on his Brothers Grimm adventure yet. Brendon sighs, put-upon, and spares a thought for Spencer, wherever he is. _Spencer_ probably isn't having to deal with this shit. _Spencer's_ probably getting to wear pants and stomp around in manly boots and get his Gaston on.

Brendon pauses for a second, unable to help following that trail of thought a little further. It might include himself as Belle and Spencer being recast as a super-grumpy Beast. He gets as far as Patrick being Cogsworth and Pete being Lumiere, and then he realizes he's a twenty-something guy seriously re-casting a fucking _Disney movie_ with some of his friends. When he gets home, he's going to have to watch every Die Hard and Lethal Weapon ever made, just to balance out the last ninety seconds.

Down below, Sister Dyer's doing something that's tugging hard on the braid and Brendon grits his teeth and holds on - after a minute, the braid goes slack.

Brendon yelps, and falls over.

Cursing, he picks himself up and dusts himself off, and glares over the side of the windowsill, for the first time. Sister Dyer's reached the bottom, and is smirking up at him. "Clumsy," she tsks, before giving the braid another light tug, gesturing for him to haul it up. Brendon rolls his eyes and obliges, tugging the braid up until the ratty ends slither over the windowsill and onto the pile of hair at his feet. "Now, don't let anyone else up while I'm gone," she singsongs, actually _wagging a finger at him_. Brendon covertly looks around the room for something to throw at her, but nothing really pops out at him. "We'll practice your needlepoint when I get back," she tells him, like it's a big _treat_.

Brendon gives her a smile, letting it go wide and cheesy and insincere as soon as Sister Dyer turns her back and starts picking her way through the tiny path through the brambles. He watches her, frowning faintly as she heads east, towards the sun.

And then his curiosity gets the better of him, and Brendon actually starts to notice the surroundings _outside_ his tower. He watches Sister Dyer pick her way through the small, twisty path between the brambles climbing up the sides of the tower. They're a good ten feet high, it looks like, and at least twenty feet deep, with leaves that are black and glossy and mean-looking. Beyond the tangle of thorns, the ground gives way to a lush green lawn, pocketed with taller grasses and trees as it rolls in gentle hills towards the horizon. Far away, Brendon can make out a dark smudge of forest, and beyond that, the glitter of what is either a city or the sea.

He stares up into the blue, cloudless sky for a long moment, wistful, before there's a sharp burst of noise and movement from one of the nearest trees - a family of birds explode out of the leaves and up into the air, heading towards the sun. Brendon tracks their progress jealously until loses sight of them entirely, and then he exhales and turns back to his room, frowning at the meager contents of it until he remembers the boxes underneath the bed.

 

One of the boxes turns out not to be a box at all, but an ancient hardshell case, with an equally ancient and _fucking gorgeous_ acoustic guitar in it, all dark wood and shine and the smell of smoke and, weirdly, the chapel of his old church. Brendon stares at it for at least five minutes before he lets himself even touch it, cradle it to him and start plucking out the first few notes of _Love and Happiness_.

After a few minutes of absorbing the music, the smooth mellow of the notes, Brendon feels so much better that he doesn't even notice when he starts humming along, feeling the music thrum through all of him. He moves from Al Green to the Doors to Roy Orbison, and the next thing he knows, he's singing along, belting out the second verse to _You've Got to Hide Your Love Away_.

Brendon pauses in the middle of a chord, in the middle of _how can I even try, I can never win_ and lets the music die away, suddenly really uncomfortable with himself and his weird message-sending subconscious, and he quickly shifts over to the familiar, comforting strains of _Fuck Her Gently_.

(He knows it's stupid, but getting to sing a song about fucking in what amounts to Sister Dyer's _house_ is making the mostly dormant fifteen-year-old asshole inside of Brendon really, really happy.)

Tenacious D is always nice and mindless, so Brendon runs through the majority of the PoD soundtrack, eventually leaning back against the footboard of his bed, sprawling out on the floor and letting his eyes slide closed as he tries to remember all of the lyrics to Kickapoo. He strums idly, singing out bits of lines, doing his best Meatloaf and Dio impressions. He keeps track of the beat by tapping his foot against the floor.

And then, from outside the window, Brendon hears someone yell up, "You sing _this oppressive neighborhood_ next, fuckass, how many times do we have to go through this?" Brendon's eyes fly open and he sits up quickly, using the footboard to haul himself up onto his feet. He lurches forward (his fucking left leg has fucking fallen asleep, ow) until he's within grabbing distance of the windowsill, and manages to pull himself over to it, propping himself up on his elbows as he peers over the side, squinting past the wide tangle of brambles.

Spence gives him a huge grin, and waves.

"Fuck you," Brendon calls cheerfully, waving back, beaming. "You can't remember the words to Bohemian Rhapsody, so I don't want to hear it."

Spencer flips him off, and hops off of the fucking huge horse he'd been sitting on, waving away some servant-looking guy who's following along on his own horse a few paces behind. Brendon can't help how his eyebrows shoot up at that - Spencer looks a _lot_ better than the last time Brendon saw him.

He's not covered in blood, for one thing. Also he looks like he might've got more than a couple hours of sleep, which is good. And - that fucker - he's still actually got some scruff on his face. "You look like a real boy, Spencersmith!" Brendon yells, giving him a thumbs-up.

"You don't!" Spencer calls back cheerfully, pushing his way down the tiny path of brambles until he's at the base of the tower, feeling around for a way in. "How the hell do I get up there? There's no door down here."

"Oh, um." Brendon winces, and looks down at the pile of braid lying next to his feet. "Okay, don't laugh," he shouts, before he reaches down to pick up the masses of hair.

Spencer manages to last about four seconds into Brendon carefully lowering the braid of hair, before he starts giggling uncontrollably. He only manages to stop long enough to ask if Brendon's neck is going to get broken when he starts climbing. Brendon glowers and flips him off, then explains about the weird pulley system he's got going until Spencer looks thoroughly confused.

"Look, just fucking get up here," Brendon says, exasperated. "It works, I won't get hurt. Come on."

"Well." Spencer looks doubtful, biting at his lower lip, but grabs onto the end of the braid. "Well, okay. But if it starts to hurt, fucking tell me."

"I promise," Brendon says, manfully refraining from rolling his eyes. He braces his feet, and grabs onto the other end of the braid at the part right before it touches the windowsill, and leans back as soon as he feels it start to go taut with Spencer's weight.

Getting Spencer up the side of the tower is a long and sort of irritating but mostly _boring_ process. Brendon pulls helpfully whenever Spencer tells him he can, but mostly he just stands there, his legs braced for impact, staring out the window at the birds wheeling lazily in the sky.

He's fucking glad Spencer's got the upper body strength of a guy used to working his arms, though. Otherwise, this would suck _ass_.

Finally, _finally_ , he sees the top of Spencer's head peek over the side of the tower. He beams down, but can't move, so all he can do is manage a strained "Hey" to make Spence look up. Spence beams up at him as well, and scrambles up the rest of the wall like he thinks he's fucking _Spiderman_ , barely giving Brendon enough time to react before the braid goes slack again and he almost falls over, like he did with Sister Dyer. "Hey," Brendon says again, taking a few deep breaths, grinning at Spencer so hard that he feels like his face is going to crack. "Hey, hey, hey."

For a second there's this weird... _crackle_ in the room, this pause of intense awkwardness, and Brendon shivers, folding his arms even as he keeps grinning at Spence. Spencer's head tilts, hair falling into his eyes for a second before he laughs to himself and reaches for Brendon, tugging him into a tight hug. Brendon squeaks, and tugs his arms out from where they're pinned between them, and wraps both around Spencer's back. He holds on, pressing his nose into Spencer's chest, his heart giving a small thump at Spencer being warm and solid and _there_ with him. "Hey," Spencer says softly. "You okay?"

Brendon closes his eyes and thinks _oh shit shit shit_ to himself, and exhales slowly. "A boy goes to bed with you and the next morning you're nowhere to be found," he says, by way of explanation.

The arms around him squeeze a little, and Brendon shuffles half a step closer, pressing his cheek just over Spence's heart. The steady thump of it is sort of comforting. "Places to go, people to see," Spencer replies, tone light and charming and guarded. Brendon risks a glance up, and _oh_. He feels his spine loosen a little - Spencer's eyes are clear blue and soft and watching him closely. "With the exception of this morning, I'm always totally a gentleman. Promise."

"Well." Brendon gives him an exaggerated pout, and - seriously, it's like having an _out of body experience_ , he can't stop himself from tacking on, "you owe me breakfast next time."

He immediately goes red, and becomes incredibly interested in brushing nonexistent lint off of Spencer's sleeve, only chancing one look up at Spence, who blinks. Once. _Shit._

"Waffles," Spencer manages, a couple of beats too late. " _Belgian_ waffles. With strawberries and real whipped cream."

And oh, fuck, he can feel his lips curling into a pleased little grin, despite himself. Brendon shakes his head, and tries to keep the grin from spreading, and fails completely. "Fancy." He looks up and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "It's enough to make a girl wonder what you have planned for the night before." And - ahaha _ha_ , Spencer's _blushing_.

"Yeah, you'll have earned them," Spence manages to reply anyway, nevermind how his cheeks down to his neck have gone _red_. "It's a pretty sweet incentive program. The highest earners get breakfast in bed." Brendon blinks, his eyes widening as Spencer's drops low and sort of purr-y and completely unexpected. He's never heard Spence sound like this.

"Really." Brendon's throat has gone sort of dry, and he swallows awkwardly, licking his dry lips. He tilts his head, and tries to follow Spencer's intense gaze, until he realizes it's sort of...focused on his own mouth, and seriously his face might be in danger of just exploding, it's going so red. "Um. Good to know," he says, and Brendon gives himself a little internal kick for sounding _way_ too sincere.

"...Yeah, the breakfast foods meritocracy is still going strong," Spencer says, moving his eyes away towards the window, taking a breath and holding it for a few seconds as the hands on Brendon's back loosen and start to slip down.

Brendon fights the urge to whine, a _nonoNO that was just getting GOOD_ seriously on the tip of his tongue before he bites it back and takes half a step back, pasting on a grin that he knows doesn't move past his mouth. (At least until he recalls that even if it did, it's not like Spencer really would have noticed, a minute ago. The thought is ridiculously cheering.) "Waffles. Waffles we can _believe_ in," he adds happily, stretching his arms behind his back as he takes a couple more steps away, putting some distance in between them.

He's hyperaware of Spencer's eyes still on him, even as he bends to grab the guitar up again. Brendon doesn't turn around as he hops towards the bed and then slides onto the mattress, propping the guitar in his lap and strumming a couple of times before he lets himself look up. And - yeah, Spencer's still watching him. "See something you like?" he leers, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer's own eyebrow lifts. "The guitar," he says loftily, smirking at the way Brendon's leer collapses in on itself. He comes over to perch on the bed as well, and Brendon shuffles over for him, angling the guitar so the neck is nearly in Spencer's lap.

"Totally miss the honesty and special times and honestly," Brendon croons, giving Spencer the most heart-wrenching sad eyes he can muster, "totally miss the fucked-up things you do."

"Flattered," Spencer drawls, tilting his head and watching Brendon finish up _Dude_ with a small smile on his face that makes Brendon fight the urge to go all shivery. When he finishes, Brendon sets the guitar down on the bed and gives Spencer an expectant look, waggling his eyebrows. "Well? How'd you find me?"

Spencer rolls his eyes, and leans back onto his elbows on the mattress. "Seriously, it's too fucking easy. Wake up, realize you're a prince, ask the first courtier you see 'Hey, are there are any damsels or princesses or fair maidens in distress around here?' and get directions from someone at the stables."

"Nice," Brendon says, nodding appreciatively. "So how did I get here?"

"Oh, your parents traded you for some cabbage or something. You've been held up here by a witch for the last ten years, apparently. Stories of your beauty have traveled far and wide, though, if that makes you feel any better."

Brendon huffs, and folds his arms across his chest. "...Maybe a little," he admits, kicking at Spencer's leg when he starts laughing. "Hey, do you even remember how Rapunzel goes? Because I don't."

"...Not really?" Spencer replies, looking sort of guilty. "I just remember the girl with the long hair. And the prince who comes to visit."

Brendon sighs, shoulders slumping a little, and he brings a hand up to rub over his eyes. "Great. Awesome. You don't have like. A sword, or anything, do you?" He reaches behind him and picks up the heavy braid of hair. "I could do with a trim."

"No, I didn't bring one," Spencer says, biting his lip, wincing at all the hair. He reaches over at gently takes the braid from Brendon, following it down a few feet until he twists his fingers through it. "I can go back to the castle tonight and bring one tomorrow, though, if you can hold out til then."

"Yeah, no, that'll work."

"You sure?" Spencer sits up and watches him carefully, until Brendon's a little afraid his cheeks are going warm. "Dude, I'm not going to lie, I don't like you being here on your own with...whoever the witch is. Has she shown up yet? Have you seen her?"

"Yeah, um." Brendon pauses, screwing up his mouth, trying to think of the best way to explain things. "Did I ever tell you about the lady down the street whose lawn I had to mow all the time, growing up?"

"What, Church Lady?" Spencer snorts, and starts coiling Brendon's braid up into the over-under configuration the techs on tour use. "Yeah, you said she..." he trails off and looks up at him, horrified. "Oh shit, seriously? That's her? The witch?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, sort of thin-lipped. "Luckily, she hasn't changed a _bit_."

"Shit, dude, I'm sorry," Spencer breathes, pausing in his attempts to get the braid back in the room, reaching up to cup one of Brendon's elbows companionably. "That fucking sucks."

"It's okay," Brendon tells him, giving him sort of a wan smile. "I mean, she's a bitch, but she isn't going to try to eat me or anything. And I don't know if she's _actually_ a witch or what," he points out, frowning as he thinks about it. "She thinks I'm a girl."

"Huh." Spencer frowns as well. "Weird."

"Seriously." Brendon shrugs, and throws his hands up a little, letting them rest on his knees, palms up. "I can't believe you don't have a fucking sword," he says after a few awkward seconds, giving Spence a quick grin. "What kind of prince are you?"

"The kind that doesn't carry a sword," Spencer replies primly, giving Brendon an unimpressed look before reaching over to dig his knuckle into the meat of his thigh. Brendon yelps and pulls away, grabbing the guitar and shoving it between them like a shield. "I'm totally a pacifist," he says, smiling beatifically.

Brendon glowers at him, and rubs his leg. "Pacifists don't beat the shit out of their bandmates," he points out, darting a hand out to grab a piece of Spencer's hair, giving it a vicious tug, smirking at Spencer's outraged squawk. "It sort of defeats the point of pacifism." After a few delicious seconds of watching Spencer flail around, Brendon finally lets go (Spencer's starting to whack at his hands and arms with some pretty solid blows, and that way lays madness. Madness, and Brendon getting hurt).

"The _hair_ ," Spencer snarls, straightening up and giving Brendon a murderous look. He runs careful fingers through his hair, wincing at a couple of tangles. "We've _discussed_ this, Brendon, _god_."

"Sorry," Brendon beams. "I forgot."

Spencer glares some more, then huffs and subsides. "You're a dick. I should just leave you up here forever and go back to my _castle_."

"You'd get bored," Brendon scoffs, still grinning, secure enough in his opinion that Spencer's done with the physical abuse that he doesn't think twice about lying back on the mattress, linking his hands behind his head. "So bored without me."

"There are worse things than boredom," Spencer mutters darkly, reaching over to pluck one of the guitar strings idly. "Being punted out of a fucking tower for breaking no-hair-pulling rules, that's worse."

"Being Brendonless for the rest of your life? Fucking _tragic_ ," Brendon pouts, turning his head so he can see Spencer's profile, the long curving line of his back. "Besides, you have to climb down my _hair_ to get out of here. I'm pretty sure you're not going to be able to sneak out when I'm not looking."

Spencer sighs heavily, and strums one fingertip across the strings. They both subside into quietness, Spencer idly plucking a guitar string every ten seconds or so. Brendon closes his eyes, set on pretending not to notice as a weird sort of tension slowly fills the room, making the air around him and Spence thick and awkward and anxious.

He swallows, clearing his throat quietly, not opening his eyes. ...It's not a _bad_ kind of tension, he thinks. He knows from bad tension, after all, and what's going on between him and Spence, it's - not that. Brendon frowns and scratches the end of his nose.

Above him, Spencer sighs and shifts on the bed, moving the guitar. A few seconds later Brendon jumps a little, startled, as he feels Spencer lean down against him, resting his head on his stomach. He cracks an eye open and lifts his head up, just enough to look down, at where Spencer's head is tilted up towards the ceiling but he's got his eyes sloped towards Brendon, guarded and light, checking to make sure what he's done is okay.

Brendon gives him a half-smile and slides a hand down, petting over Spencer's hair lightly, until Spence loses the tension in his shoulders and jaw and actually sinks down against him, not holding himself up anymore. "Tired?" he asks.

"Always," Spencer snorts. "Not bad, though. Slept pretty well last night, considering a wolf tried to kill us earlier in the evening."

"Me too," Brendon agrees, twisting a piece of hair behind Spencer's ear. "We're machines, dude. Sleeping machines."

"I don't know if I'd go that far," Spence muses, frowning as he considers Brendon's claim. "Not until we can sleep with our eyes open. Or sleep standing up."

"Oh. Yeah, fuck that," Brendon says, wrinkling his nose up. "I'll never be that tired." And then (and seriously, _fuck his life so hard_ , Brendon hates that he's almost a quarter of a century old and _still_ hasn't managed to learn how not to say everything he thinks), he follows it up with, "Besides, as long as I manage to keep you around, I'll always have a pretty comfortable pillow."

He fights the urge to cover his face with his hands. Or his _actual_ pillow. Or, y'know, just start punching himself until he loses consciousness.

Spencer just snorts. "Yeah, likewise, Urie. Even if you are kinda bony."

"That's what she said," Brendon can't help saying - at this point, he thinks it qualifies as a compulsion. A nervous tic.

Spence smiles, shutting his eyes, and Brendon watches him closely. He _wants_ , suddenly, an almost overwhelming greed to just. Grab for Spencer, trace fingers over his lips, feel his breath on different patches of his own skin. It's sort of startling - during his past rough patches regarding Spence, when he's had to retreat and regroup and talk himself down, Brendon's crush has always stayed sort of _theoretical_. Like, he's always had a _theory_ that Spencer's a good kisser, but all of a sudden he can imagine - with a great deal of clarity and detail, what the fuck - the rasp of Spencer's beard against his cheek, the way Spence's callused fingers would feel on the back of his neck.

It's fucking distracting. Brendon sucks in a breath and shuts his eyes tight, and tries not to let himself think about that anymore. He doesn't need Spencer turning his head and getting whacked in the face with a boner, that'd probably be detrimental to their working relationship.

"I miss Bogart," he says, mainly to keep Spence from noticing anything. But then he actually starts _thinking_ about that as well, and shit, he really _does_ miss Bogart. "He's okay, right? Shane's probably come to get him by now, right? Shane would've come by to check," he says, sucking in a breath, feeling the fluttering beginnings of a massive freak-out deep in his stomach. "Spence."

"Of course Shane's come to get him," Spencer says smoothly, reaching over for one of Brendon's hands, giving it a quick squeeze. "And he's having doggy sleepovers with Indie and Dylan and Regan's making those homemade dog biscuits for them. And Shane's taken eight million pictures, and you're going to ask for copies of _each one_ when we get home."

"And Shane remembered to get his ostrich? And the red ball?" Brendon's clinging to Spencer's hand a little, taking a deep breath. And then another.

"Yup." Spencer shifts a little, and Brendon opens his eyes to look down and make sure everything's okay, and meets Spence's eyes full-on. He's got his cheek against Brendon's ribcage now, watching him with concern. "And the dentabones, and his blanket, and his leash, and his treats, and everything."

Brendon sucks in another breath and nods, bringing his free hand up to press against his eyes irritably, trying to stave off the stinging he can feel starting to happen. "...Stupid dog," he mutters, pressing his lips tight together after. He can feel Spence moving around again, twisting and pressing up a little, til there's the slight dig of a chin against his chest. Spencer transfers Brendon's fingers from one hand to the other, and then Brendon can feel an arm wrapping tight around his middle.

"It's not stupid, Brendon," Spencer says quietly, and Brendon can feel his jaw moving, pressing into his own chest as he forms the words.

"Fucking _is_ ," he protests, his voice thick. He exhales and smacks his hand down against the mattress, pulling it away from his eyes, scowling as he blinks them open. "I'm just. _Fuck_ , Spence, I wish I'd paid more attention to that fucking table of contents so I knew how many more we had to go."

"I know," Spencer murmurs, tilting his head so his cheek is resting against Brendon's ribs. His eyes are sad and clear, and Brendon watches him for a couple of seconds, the way he rises and falls with Brendon's breaths. "You got homesick on tour, too," Spence says, giving him a crooked little smile.

Brendon laughs, a short, painful sound in the silence of the room. "God, seriously. I just want to be _home_. I want to do laundry and play Halo and eat ramen and do dishes and make _music_ , I want my _guitars_ , Spence, and I want to take Bogart for walks and go bug Shane and Regan and I want to see Bronx, I miss Bronx, we should tell Pete to let us babysit him again, and I miss going to movies with Sarah, _fuck_ I miss her, and the way she always smells really nice and her hair's really soft, and I miss _popcorn_ , and Del Taco and Slurpees and fucking _Twizzlers_ and _shit_ , Spence. This sucks," he finishes, having run out of breath.

Spencer's scrunched up on his side a little now, his head tilted so that Brendon can't quite see his eyes, but it looks like he's just looking down at where their hands are still joined. "Yeah," he agrees, after a few seconds of silence.

Brendon sighs, and squeezes his hand. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Spencer says, so quiet that Brendon can barely hear him. There's another pause, long enough for Brendon to sigh, and then Spencer's sitting up, gently twisting his fingers out of Brendon's grasp.

"Hey," Brendon huffs, frowning at him. He squawks a little when Spencer actually gets up and starts walking around the bed, taking the guitar and putting it back in its case for him. " _Hey_."

Spencer glances over at him quickly, and then looks towards the window. "I have to - I'm going to go back, get the sword and stuff. Do you think Church Lady will be gone about the same time tomorrow?"

Brendon blinks. "Spence, what - "

"Nevermind, I'll just." Spencer folds his arms around his chest, squeezing them tight for a second as he frowns down at the floor. "I can wait outside, those brambles look like they could hide a T-rex."

"Um."

Spencer finally looks up at him, then, and gives him a sort of searching look. "I'll be back first thing in the morning, okay? You can hang on til then, right?"

"Well, _yeah_ ," Brendon says, kind of dizzy at trying to keep up with _what just happened_. "But."

"Okay." Spencer looks around at the room, and nods firmly. "...Okay." He reaches for the coil of braid, and gives Brendon an apologetic look as he starts threading it back through the pulley, tossing the end farther out the window til he's got enough room to climb down. He tugs a couple of times on the length hanging out the ledge, and winces, giving Brendon another quick look to make sure he hasn't just hurt him.

Brendon's still sitting on the bed, totally confused, staring at Spencer with what he _knows_ is a wounded expression. Seriously, _what_? "Spence."

"See you tomorrow," Spencer says hastily, hopping up onto the windowsill and grabbing the braid tight, looping it around one arm as he fumbles around for a moment and then starts down the wall. Brendon twitches as the braid goes taut, not really _hurting_ from it, but feeling the stress on the braid, a hint of pressure.

He doesn't move from the bed, and after not even half a minute, he feels the braid go slack. _God, Spencer must've half-killed himself trying to get down_ , he thinks. He can't explain why, but that thought makes the ache in his chest twist and grow sharper, grow thorns.

Sucking in another deep breath, Brendon looks around the empty room, and then sinks down onto the bed again. He curls up on his side, halfheartedly tugs the bedsheet over him, and hangs onto the mattress tight, pressing his face into the cool of the pillow.

At least now, when he cries over missing his stupid dog and his stupid house and his stupid friends, nobody'll be there to see him.

 

A smack on the face wakes him up.

" _Why_ is the braid out the window, you stupid girl?" Sister Dyer snarls, hovering over him, her hand raised to smack him again. Brendon blinks up at her, still sleep-groggy and shocked, rubbing his reddening cheek.

"What?"

"Did you let someone into your room? _Did you_?" she hisses, grabbing his collar and tugging him up, closer to her face. Brendon recoils as much as he's able, and shakes his head.

"No, god," he mumbles, giving her a hurt look, his mind starting to whirl. "I was just..." he trails off, and gets an idea, and yawns hugely. "I was just _tired_ ," he murmurs. "I was afraid that I'd fall asleep while you were gone and I wouldn't hear you call."

Sister Dyer lets go of his collar, _thank fuck_ , and sits back a little, staring at him beadily. "So you let your braid down, and left yourself open to _anyone_ climbing up here?"

"I thought that if it was anyone I didn't know, I'd wake up when they tried to climb up," Brendon tells her, giving her his best innocent, wounded frown. (It worked on his mom for _years_.) "Why would I want anyone else up here?" he asks, sounding bewildered.

Sister Dyer gives him a long, suspicious look. And then she nods, and slides off of the mattress, giving his knee a pat. "You're a good girl. I'm sorry I doubted you."

"Well," Brendon grumbles, letting himself sink back down onto the mattress, curling his hands under his pillow so she won't see how they're trembling. "You didn't have to _smack_ me."

"I said I was sorry," she snaps, going back over to the window to retrieve the knapsack of supplies she'd obviously dumped there in a fit of rage. Brendon thinks he sees a small wheel of cheese, which perks him up a little (it's been ages since he's eaten anything resembling a meal - actually, the last time was at Gerard's, which sends Brendon into another black fit when he realizes). "Hungry?"

Brendon doesn't trust himself to answer. His stomach growls, though, loud enough that even across the room, Sister Dyer smirks to herself. Brendon rolls his eyes and sighs, curling up tighter on himself, debating the merits of tugging the pillow up over his head and trying to force himself back into sleep.

The more he sleeps, the faster morning will get here, after all.

After about ten minutes of puttering around, Sister Dyer slides a plate of cheese and bread and salted meat onto the mattress beside him, and Brendon stares at it for a couple of seconds, before sitting up and shoving the bread into his mouth, all in one go, almost choking as he struggles to chew.

"I see the 'ladylike bites' lesson went completely over our head," Sister Dyer remarks nastily, giving Brendon a disgusted look. God, he doesn't _even_ care, this is the best bread ever baked. He starts on the cheese with as much enthusiasm, and when he's finished with that, he eyes the meat sort of longingly before he pushes the plate away, feeling sort of saintly for clinging to the vegetarianism when he feels like he could probably eat an entire cow.

"Thank you," he says primly, lying back down.

"I hope you're not sickening again," Sister Dyer sighs, somewhere behind Brendon. He can hear the creak and whine of the rocking chair as she settles into it. "After that cough you had all spring, I don't know if my nerves can take another round."

"I'll see what I can do," Brendon drawls, closing his eyes, forcing himself to lie still.

"You don't want to practice your guitar?" she asks. Brendon frowns and shakes his head, not opening his eyes. Seriously, why can she not take a hint and just leave him alone?

"I did while you were gone," he mumbles.

"Oh, well," she sighs, sounding almost regretful. Brendon remembers suddenly that though she seemed to despise the rest of him, Sister Dyer always did love his singing. He barely manages to hold back a snicker, but can't stop from smirking faintly as he wonders if Sister Dyer - the _real_ Sister Dyer - ever picked up either of the Panic albums. And if so, how she liked them.

Brendon keeps his eyes closed, and tries to ignore the incipient headache making its presence known at the back of his head. He focuses on sleep, and all the times he nearly fell asleep during interviews and practices on the last tour, and how the mattress is comfortable and the sheet's going warm from his body heat.

He can feel himself starting to get fuzzy, farther away, and Brendon finally gives in and lets himself think about Spencer - the weight of Spence on his belly, the comforting press of his arms. He can recall perfectly the way Spencer's hair smells, the way it changes depending on what hotels they've been staying in - coconut for HoJos and Holiday Inns, orange and spice for Marriotts, and rosemary for the occasional Westin.

Mostly, though, he thinks about falling asleep with him, the countless times he's outlasted Spence and felt him go slack and heavy with sleep, the times he's woken up during the night (or day, whatever) and found the two of them tangled up together and hasn't even _minded_. He knows how Spencer's hand feels when it's pressed to the small of his back, and how Spencer talks in his sleep, always sounding sort of irritated (it's hilarious).

He knows how it feels safe, and comfortable, to tuck his head under the crook of Spence's chin and drift off. That's the last thing Brendon thinks before his body gives up and just goes back to sleep, though his chest does give one last wrench of homesickness as, once more, he registers Spencer's absence.

 

"Now, do practice your needlepoint, and I expect you to have finished your sums by the time I return," Sister Dyer says, giving Brendon a smarmy-looking smile that makes every part of his skin cringe. She reaches up to pat his cheek, and he resists the eight-year-old-boy impulse to rub it away furiously. "You can't spend all your time on music."

"Wanna bet?" Brendon mutters mutinously, giving her a sickly smile when she hops onto the windowsill and turns back around, regarding him. "Have fun in town," he says, trying not to glare up at her - she'd got him up _extra_ early that morning, and made him remake the bed half a dozen times, and had made him eat three hard-boiled eggs. Brendon fucking _hates_ hard-boiled eggs.

He folds his arms and watches her disappear down the side of the tower, and then waits for the minute or so it takes her to get all the way down. He can barely feel it when she lets go of the braid, but then, she probably weighs ninety pounds soaking wet. His mom used to say Sister Dyer gave up food when she found out she could live off of judging people.

He sighs, and immediately goes over to the dresser, peering into the tiny mirror above it, wincing at his bedhead and at the boxy nightgown Sister Dyer bullied him into, the night before. He grumbles and turns to the dresser, flinging open the drawers and rummaging around until he finds an old threadbare nightshirt that'll have to do, and a pair of linen bloomers that look like they'd come past his knee. He considers them for a second, and then uses his teeth to start a hole in one leg, just above the lace. He manages to rip off the lace from one leg, and then the other, and he's just shimmied into the bloomers (they almost look like breeches now, thank fuck) when he feels a tug on his hair, coming from outside.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel," comes Spencer's voice, "gonna climb your not-so-golden stair now, you're all right with that, right?"

Brendon can't help the smile that's broken out on his face, or the way it's spreading. He darts for the window and waves down, then ducks back when he notices another guy. "Um," he says, nervous. "Just you?"

There's a small pause. "Yeah, just me," Spence assures him. "Don't freak out, it's Shane." Brendon blinks, and hurries back to the window. "My, uh, _manservant_ Shane," Spencer adds hastily, giving Brendon a significant look. "He's gonna help us, okay?"

"Okay," Brendon says, his voice kind of small. He glances over at Shane, who beams up at him from under a huge, ridiculous hat, and waves enthusiastically. It makes Brendon want to _cry_ , but he waves back and gives him a watery smile, and then Spencer's grabbed onto the braid and is hauling himself up, and Brendon barely has time to try to smooth his hair out of its current twists and peaks before Spencer's up on the windowsill and then over, standing in Brendon's room.

"Hey," Spence says, breathless, his chest heaving a little. He gives Brendon a brilliant smile, and produces a knife from a sheath inside his belt. "Still want that haircut?"

Brendon gapes at him for a second, and then shivers and lurches towards him, grabbing for Spencer and curling both arms tight around him before Spence can even resist. "God, just. Hi," he says, feeling his chest starting to get tight, "hi, are you still mad? Is that really Shane? Is he okay, here, was he nice to you? Is Regan here too? No, seriously, are you still mad at me, because - "

"Bren," Spencer interrupts, reaching his empty hand up to pat Brendon's back lightly. "Whoa, hey. You okay?"

Brendon just _stares_ up at him for a second, and then looks over at the _braid_ hanging out of the window, and then down at his frilly nightshirt, and then at his bare room.

"Okay, stupid question," Spencer admits, wrapping his other arm around Brendon too, holding the knife carefully away from him. "I wasn't mad at you, what the fuck," he continues, dipping his head, til Brendon can feel Spence's breath against his shoulder. "And yeah, Shane's nice, and I think he has a Regan. He wanted to come because apparently he and Rapunzel were childhood friends, how about that," he says, pulling back enough to give Brendon a wry grin.

Brendon rolls his eyes, and smiles too. "Yeah, how _about_ that," he says, before he takes half a step back and looks behind him, grabbing for the knife Spencer's holding. "Gimme. Wigs for Kids needs a _serious_ donation, as soon as possible."

Spencer quickly twists the knife away, out of Brendon's grasp, bringing it back around and holding it behind his own back. "Um, yeah, I'm thinking _no_ ," he says, giving Brendon a sharp look. "This is the sharpest knife they had in the castle. I'm not giving it to you so you can accidentally decapitate yourself."

"Aw," Brendon says, batting his eyelashes, telling himself fiercely _not to blush_. "You love me."

Spencer snorts, and turns Brendon around, so his back is facing Spencer's front. "Don't flatter yourself. I've got bills to pay, and they rely on you not being dead and being able to sing."

"Yeah, but you love me too," Brendon says confidently, even though approximately four seconds later he wants to die of shame, when Spencer completely fails to respond.

"Don't move," Spencer mutters a moment later, and then he's tying a length of ribbon _tight_ around the hair just at the nape of Brendon's neck. Brendon can feel it when the hair starts to come off, a lessening of weight, of pressure at the back of his head.

"It's not going to fall out of the window, is it?" Brendon asks, almost too nervous to _breathe_.

"Nah, still tethered to the pulley," Spencer assures him, but he does pause in cutting to reach down and put a length of the braid into Brendon's hands. "There, you can hang on."

"Thanks," Brendon breathes, and he can't figure out why he's _relieved_ at that. He decides not to worry about it, and closes his eyes as Spencer goes back to cutting the hair away from his head, swift, short strokes of the knife.

And then - not even five minutes after he started - Spencer steps away. "Done," he says, sounding sort of surprised. Brendon blinks his eyes open, and turns around, staring down at the unattached braid in his hands.

"Huh," he says. He drops the braid, and reaches both hands up to feel where Spencer cut it away - his hair is still starting to fall around his ears, which is a _weird_ feeling, he'd almost forgot about it. He can feel where the hair is shortest, at the back of his neck, and the way it quickly fans outward. He darts over to the little mirror on the dresser, and cringes. "Fuck, I look like Prince Valiant," he groans, trying to push his hair behind his ears.

"Thank you so much, Spence," Spencer says dryly, turning to give Brendon an amused look. "Oh, you're welcome, Brendon, I'm happy to help."

"Thanks, Spence," Brendon says dutifully, ducking his head as he comes back over to give Spencer's arm a pat.

"You're welcome," Spencer says politely, and then he reaches down to pick up the braid and heads closer to the window, using the knife to pin the braid to the floor. "Won't come unraveled when we're getting down," he explains, seeing Brendon's confused look.

"Oh." Brendon grins a little. "Look at you, being smart."

"It's what I do," Spencer sighs, with a gesture. "Anyway, get your shit. This place gives me the creeps."

Brendon nods and scurries towards the bed, ducking underneath it to retrieve the guitar and an empty knapsack. He puts the guitar gently on the bed and then heads over to the dresser, tossing clothes out of the way as he tries to find something that might be vaguely appropriate once they get out of the fucking tower.

Then he has a thought. "Wait, shit. You're not going to make me wear dresses, are you?"

Spencer snorts. "Fuck that. Anybody gives you a hard time, you're with the prince. I'll fuck their shit _up_."

"Best prince _ever_ ," Brendon beams at him, before turning his attention back to the clothes, namely, a simple shift he's holding up. He scrutinizes it for a second, and it doesn't have any lace, so he stuffs it in his bag. "You want to go check the wardrobe?"

Spencer obediently slouches over to the wardrobe and throws it open, searching through the clothes with a careful eye, pinching his lips up. It's the same expression Spencer shops with, and Brendon has to take a minute to force himself not to start laughing giddily at finally getting _out_ , getting to be back with Spence again. He turns back around, and starts on the last drawer.

"Hey, Bren, y - oh, fuck," Spencer starts, and then quickly interrupts himself, his voice quieting. Brendon blinks, and pauses in his search, and turns around.

His stomach quickly plummets - there, standing on the windowsill and holding a sword to Spencer's throat, is Sister Dyer.

"I _knew_ it," she hisses, stopping just long enough to shoot Brendon a filthy look. "You talked in your sleep last night, and I _knew_. Prince Spencer, I presume?" she says, turning her attention back to Spence.

Spence presses his lips together tightly, and tilts his chin. "Yes."

"Come to kidnap my charge?" she snarls. Spencer raises an eyebrow, and glances over at Brendon thoughtfully.

"Doesn't look like she's putting up much of a fight," he points out evenly. Sister Dyer lets out a weird, low growl of rage, and hops down from the windowsill, circling Spencer like snake. Spencer stays stock-still, and Brendon squeezes his fists to stop them from shaking as he looks around the room for something, anything he can use to -

The knife. It's still being used to pin the braid to the floor, but the braid is still twisted around in the pulley, so he could _technically_...

Brendon starts inching towards the braid.

" - not a crime to grant freedom to someone _you_ kidnapped years ago, actually," Spencer's arguing, sneering down at Sister Dyer, who's almost hopping with rage. She still has the sword pointed at him, though not as high anymore, seeing as the sword is almost as big as she is. "Now that I think about it," Spencer says, tilting his head and giving her an infuriating smirk, "you're under arrest."

She shrieks with rage and tries to hit him with the side of the sword, but Spencer quickly brings one vambraced arm, protecting himself from the blow. Brendon darts forward quickly, tugging the knife free and sliding it up his sleeve, holding the cool handle in his palm.

"She was really mean to me, your highness," he pipes up, giving Spencer an encouraging grin when Spence looks up and meets his eyes. "Barely ever fed me and made me sing all the time and kept me up in here for _years_."

Sister Dyer whirls around, forgetting about her rage at Spencer as she turns her eyes on Brendon. God, they're almost _glittering_ with hate; if looks could kill, Brendon knows he would just be a pile of ash on the ground. Sister Dyer's look doesn't just kill, it _cremates_. "How dare you," she whispers, venom dripping from every word. "Take my kindness and throw it in my face, how _dare_ you!" she says, her voice crescendoing into a shriek by the last three words. She raises her arm to run Brendon through with the sword, and Brendon doesn't even have time to _react_ , he just glances up at Spencer with shock in his eyes.

But then Spence - oh, fuck - Spencer grabs Sister Dyer's arm and holds it back, not letting her go through with the lunge. She pivots on one foot, twisting around, her skinny little bird-body running on nothing but eight decades of generalized anger, and instead of trying to whap Spencer with the sword again, she just _pushes_ , lunging against him with all her might.

There's this weird three-second pause where Spencer stumbles, and then almost regains his balance. Almost. And then Sister Dyer shrieks and pushes him again, and this time it's _Spence_ who looks at _Brendon_. Their eyes meet for a second, and it's weird - Brendon doesn't see any _fear_ in Spencer's eyes, he just looks sort of surprised. He's just been pushed out of a window by a woman who's fifty years his senior.

Brendon is four feet away, and Spencer's already out the window by the time he makes it to the ledge, hanging over and shrieking Spence's name in a voice that doesn't sound like his.

It's.

Spencer's landed in the brambles, his body twined through the thorns and branches and already starting to ribbon through with red, Brendon can see, he can _see Spencer's blood_ and he's still screaming Spencer's name but _Spence isn't moving_ and after Brendon has stopped yelling so much he _still_ isn't moving and Brendon's watching his clothes go all red too and he realizes, he realizes.

Sister Dyer is _laughing_.

He turns to her, blinking the haze ( _oh_ , those might be tears) out of his eyes as he watches her frail form _shake_ with laughter, til tears are forming at the corners of her eyes.

"You idiot, did you really think he'd manage it?" she says, gasping for breath, before doubling over in another paroxysm of laughter. "And now! He's cut your hair off, _no one's_ going to want you, and you've killed him! They'll probably hang you!"

Brendon blinks at her, sort of afraid of the small, hot ball of hate he feels forming deep in his chest, near his heart. He glances back down at the brambles and hears rustling, and he thinks he might see moving shadows, a glimpse of royal colors. Then, finally, he sees Shane's face flitting among the thorns, small flashes of his sleeves as he carefully tugs Spencer down and away from the worst of the branches.

Shane glances up, and freezes when he sees Brendon watching. And then he holds a finger to his lips, and goes back to tugging Spencer free. Brendon glances quickly away, before Sister Dyer looks down as well.

"...Please," he manages to say, even though his hands are _actually shaking_ with the desire to just. Wrap themselves around her throat. "Please, ma'am, he. He was a prince, he said he would make me a princess."

Sister Dyer sneers at him. "Oh, _don't_ think I'm going to fall for that."

"It's true," Brendon says, sucking in a couple of deep breaths, trying to keep himself calm. At least until Shane manages to get Spencer away, he has to keep calm til then. "He said the royal tailors would make me a new outfit every day, and that he had one hundred guitars, and a new piano, and - "

"What nonsense," Sister Dyer scoffs, tossing her head, folding her arms up tight. "Nobody in this whole kingdom has a piano, I'd _know_ if they did."

Brendon hangs his head. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I believed him. Please don't tell anyone, please." He swallows down his hate, and looks up at her, letting only fear and guilt show in his eyes, though inwardly he's as a ravening wolf. _Please_ , he mouths, pitiful.

Sister Dyer tilts her head. "Do you promise never to try anything so stupid, ever again?"

"Oh, I _promise_ ," he says immediately, taking a step forward, all eagerness. "I'll be perfect, I promise."

"Somehow I doubt that," she sneers, rolling her eyes. Then she goes over to the bed, where Brendon put the guitar case when he was packing, when he thought he was _getting out_. Brendon has a moment of dizziness where he thinks about Spencer standing here with him not ten minutes ago, happy and full of plans, and then he snaps back to the present and finds himself shaking.

Sister Dyer is holding the guitar case by its handle, and holding it out to Brendon expectantly. "You will play until I say stop," she orders, waiting until Brendon moves woodenly over to take the case before she heads for her rocking chair.

Brendon sits down on the floor, and picks the guitar up out of the case, and starts to play.

 

It's actually probably the best way anyone could have thought of, to keep him sane, Brendon reflects later. Instead of freaking out about Spencer as he otherwise would have, Brendon was immediately given an occupation and a goal. He had to make sure Shane got Spencer back to the castle without Sister Dyer noticing, and he had to make sure Sister Dyer believed Brendon was going to stay with her so she wouldn't plan any more revenge. So, he plays the guitar. He plays through every single Beatles song he can remember, and then the Beach Boys, and then Tenacious D (he just doesn't sing the lyrics), and then, after five hours, when the sun is growing faint past the trees and the hills and Sister Dyer's eyelids are growing heavy, Brendon shifts over to all the lullabies and Primary church songs he can remember his mother singing to him, when he was little.

He sings along, with those, and feels a certain hateful _sweetness_ in his heart as he watches Sister Dyer nod off, lulled into sleep by his song.

He sings two more songs, just to make sure. She doesn't stir, and after the second one ends, Brendon realizes she's snoring slightly.

He cautiously puts the guitar back in its case and latches it, and stands. After another couple of breathless seconds, Brendon crosses the room, til he's standing in front of her, watching her breathing in and out, rocking slightly.

He still wants to. His hands still itch for it. Every time Brendon's eyes close, he sees the slices of Spencer's blood tracking across pale skin, reducing him to planes of black thorns and red blood and white flesh til he didn't look like _Spencer_ anymore. She did that.

He could probably get away with it, if he managed to find Spencer fast enough (if Spence was still...around) and they got through the rest of the story quick enough, no one would even have to find _out_.

Brendon stares down at her for a long time, watching Sister Dyer's eyelids flicker, watching her mouth fall open as she breathes.

Eventually, though, he regains his perspective and takes a deep, silent breath and moves away, back to the bed, back to the knapsack still lying there. It's full enough, he has a few things. He moves over to the table and grabs what little bread and cheese there is left and stuffs them inside the bag as well, and then he picks up Spencer's knife and tucks it carefully in, between the clothes and the food.

He hauls the knapsack across his back and then fiddles with the strap of the guitar case, tossing it over his other shoulder and tightening it til he can move around the room with relative ease.

And then, he heads to the window, just as the sun is letting off its brightest rays of red and orange and pink over the sky. He perches on the windowsill for a second and then twists, grabbing his braid in both hands and setting his feet on the stone of the tower below him.

He swings his weight, and then he's off, flying off of the windowsill and whirling around until he almost crashes into the side of the tower, before he manages to find his feet.

Brendon glances down and bites his lip, and then starts to descend.

It takes him a good five minutes, because not only is he new to this, he's also off-balance from the luggage and he's trying to stay silent in case Sister Dyer wakes up.

 _Finally_ , though, he looks down and realizes he's only about five feet off the ground. Brendon clenches his teeth, and takes a sharp breath, and then pushes away from the tower and lets go of the braid, landing on his feet on the ground. He almost topples over, but barely manages to hold onto his balance.

For a few seconds, he just laughs silently, beaming up at the braid, at the tower and the faint light coming from the window.

And then his laughter dies away, and Brendon's eyebrows furrow as he grabs for the end of the braid and starts to _pull_ , with everything in him, until he's almost lying back on the ground.

(Up in the tower, the pulley system everyone relied on begins to give up its end of the braid.)

Brendon has to take a couple of breaks, and eventually shucks off his shirt to use as cushioning for his hands (though he's a little worried they're already going to be blistered in the morning), and then, after fifteen minutes of work, Brendon falls over backward as the pulley gives up its last inch of braid and the whole mass of hair comes tumbling to the ground with a loud _THUMP_. Brendon can't help it, he starts _giggling_ as he manages to right himself, and he quickly tugs his shirt back on and takes up the knapsack and the guitar again, and heads in the direction he saw Shane and Spencer leave.

He makes it to the forest before he hears, far behind him, the sound of shrieks echoing through the trees.

 

***

 

Two days later, Brendon finds himself washed up into the streets of Spencer's little kingdom, unkempt and hungry and tired and absolutely _exhilarated_. He finds out from a passerby that Spencer isn't dead, just hurt and in a long sleep from his "hunting accident," and Brendon nearly gets his ass handed to him when he hugs the man who tells him and almost starts a barfight.

As it is, he has his guitar and his little bag of clothes and Spencer's knife, and he suspects he'll have to lift another couple of apples from a street vendor's cart at some point today, but the important thing is, Spencer is _alive_ and Brendon is _free_ and Spencer is _somewhere close_.

Brendon beams down at his guitar and launches into Folkin' Around, singing as happily as he knows how. Two pretty girls pass by and drop a couple of coins in front of him, giggling a little as Brendon winks at them, and Brendon thinks _fuck yeah_.

 

After a week and a half of slumming, though, the novelty wears off.

Brendon just feels _gross_ , and dirty, and itchy, and he knows he smells. He's starving and he sleeps on a rooftop above a bakery because there aren't many other homeless people who think to climb up there, and Brendon's already almost had his guitar stolen half a dozen times (plus, the baker's daughter - who kind of reminds him of Greta - took pity on him and gave him a couple of rolls once, in the early morning, when she'd just started work. He compensated by singing to her through the window. From the grins he got, he's pretty sure she thought it was a fair trade).

After a week of scrimping, he finally manages to scrape together enough coins from singing to exchange for a room for the night, and the room even has a tub and a promise of semi-hot water. Brendon nearly passes out from happiness when he sees one of the inn's employees filling it up with gently steaming water, and he doesn't even mind the whitish lump of soap he's supposed to make do with, it is _soap_ and it is _water_ and he is going to be _clean_.

He doesn't leave the tiny tub until his teeth have started chattering, and even then he only does because the soap is gone and the water has actually gone grey with filth. Brendon skritches his pruny fingers through his wet hair and stands up, letting himself drip dry (there aren't any towels) for a few seconds before he wanders over to his pallet and rifles through his knapsack. He's still wet from the tub, skin still sticky-moist as he finds his last change of clean clothes and starts to change into them. When he's done, he lies back on the limp pillow, not minding his wet hair or the possibility of fleas, and closes his eyes. He swallows against his dry throat, trying to wet it, and lets his mind wander.

Tomorrow. _Tomorrow_ , he'll get up extra-early and go to his bakery where the Greta girl works, and he'll have _food_ for the first time in three days and offer to help her in the store. And then...Spencer will come in, because he'll have heard rumors about a wildly talented busker who performs in front of Greta's Bakery, and he'll just _know_ , and Brendon will have flour in his hair and will be baking things industriously when Spencer the Prince shows up and asks for him.

And then there'll be a joyful reunion and Spencer will take Brendon up to the castle and there'll be _food_ there, maybe _vegetables_ (god, it's been _weeks_ since Brendon's seen anything edible that even approaches the color green), and then Spencer will take Brendon to the royal quarters so that Brendon can sleep, except Brendon magically won't be tired, for the first time in a week. And Spencer will give him that one little smile he has, and he'll get sort of...flustered, so it'll be Brendon who has to take the two steps forward and just -

Brendon sighs and bites his own lip, scowling at himself as he pulls his hands away from where it was drifting underneath the hem of his pants.

It turns out that the hardest part of roughing it in a fairy tale town isn't the lack of indoor plumbing (but seriously, gross) or the ever-present possibility of a knifing or malnutrition. It's fucking _missing Spencer Smith_.

Brendon groans and rolls over onto his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut _tight_ as he tries to turn his brain off and just let himself _sleep_. He's been daydreaming, fucking... _fantasizing_ about Spencer and the myriad of ways they'll run across each other again, all these ridiculous meet-cutes and adventure stories that make him out to be either Bridget Jones or James Bond, and it's screwing with Brendon's mind.

Daydreaming about what _could_ be, though, is still better than the alternative. For the first few days out of the tower, Brendon could barely move, barely pick himself up off the forest floor and keep putting one foot in front of the other, for missing Spencer so badly. Of course, he hadn't been sure Spencer was still _alive_ at that point, which hadn't helped matters, but...

Even after he'd found out Spence was still around, it hadn't got much better. Brendon went to sleep fighting back tears one night, the first night he spent on top of the bakery, actually, because from the rooftop he had a pretty clear view of the castle and he could suddenly remember the way Spencer just looked _surprised_ when he'd fallen out of the tower. And he could remember how Spencer looked huddled under his cloak, arguing with Frank, and how Spencer looked all curled up beside him in the first story, sleepy and loose-limbed and young-looking.

Which, of course, devolved into every single image of Spence that Brendon had committed to memory since he was seventeen, and there were a _lot_ , and most of them involved Spencer's smile.

So...yeah, the daydreams are still more productive. Brendon's allowing himself three a day, just as incentive to actually get up and go out and get somewhere safe every night, and not only because if he doesn't, he's a little worried he'll just fade into the background and disappear. Thinking about Spencer, _planning_ on Spencer, is something he's never allowed himself to do before. In _any_ context - there are reasons Spencer's got a reputation as the sole owner of any business acumen behind their little music operation, and Brendon suspects a large part of it is because he still has a hard time letting himself believe Spence is sticking around, with him.

So, fantasizing about a fucking ridiculous Meg-Ryan-and-Tom-Hanks setup involving himself and Spence and a cheerfully precocious child, or a bookstore, or _whatever_ , is quite a step forward for him.

Even if _now_ it's starting to lead into dangerous jerking-off territory. Brendon can't explain _why_ , but he can't let himself get that into it - it feels like cheating, somehow.

(Not cheating like _adultery_ , which...technically, it is, he supposes. Brendon's had a week and a half to experience a huge range of emotions regarding this _thing_ he has for Spence, and the way it's only getting worse with time. It's a fucking terminal case, apparently, and actually looking that fact in the face and owning up to it doesn't make him feel like any less of a shit where Sarah is concerned.

He's a complete asshole. Seriously, god, what the _hell_? Who has a perfectly awesome girlfriend and then fucking destroys it all for just the _possibility_ of an ill-advised gay love connection with his _best fucking friend_ that all started in his head when he was a teenager? This is some Ryan Ross-level relationship bullshit, and Brendon is ashamed.)

Whatever. Brendon resigns himself to a lifetime of having lots of _feelings_ , and rolls over onto his side on his probably flea-infested pallet, and tries not to touch himself while thinking of his bandmate. This is totally the life he signed on for. Awesome.

 

The next day, Brendon groans as soon as he wakes up - sunlight is streaming through the slats of the walls and the tiny sliver of window. Obviously it's too late to make good on his plans to go and grab an early-morning breakfast, so that's another six hours of hunger, at least. He's starting to feel kind of...weird, light-headed a little bit, so he thinks he might just lie in bed a little while longer.

He wakes up again when the innkeeper shakes his shoulder roughly and informs Brendon that getting-out time was a good three hours ago. Brendon mumbles an apology and rummages for a few more coins as he grabs his things and shoves them back into his knapsack. His guitar is still safe, tucked under the other side of the pallet, and Brendon barely remembers to grab it before the innkeeper shows him the door. Brendon blinks and yawns, his head buzzing, and sluggishly throws the guitar and the pack over his shoulders as he lets himself be washed up into the beat of the streets.

After a few hours of roaming (seriously, with the exception of the outdoor plumbing, some parts of Spencer's little kingdom are _so_ fucking pretty), Brendon finds himself deposited near the castle walls, gazing up at the huge white expanse in awe. Thirty feet down the way, a couple of soldiers are watching him suspiciously, so Brendon gives them his best nonthreatening smile and reaches for his guitar case, holding it up questioningly.

The soldiers glance at each other, and then back at the stranger with the terrible girl clothes. "You any good?" one of them offers, finally.

"The best," Brendon calls back, smiling when they all guffaw.

"Yeah, all right," one of them yells, cupping a hand to his mouth. "Give us a song about soldiering, and if you're any good, we'll see."

Brendon bows his thanks, getting into his role, and quickly settles down on the ground in front of the wall, leaning back against it as he takes the guitar out and strings it carefully while he thinks of a song that won't get his ass kicked and might give him an opportunity to make some money and get some _food_. He could do 21 Guns, if it wasn't so fucking depressing, or Viva La Gloria, or something not Green Day-related, or...

Brendon can't help breaking into giggles (he's _delirious_ , okay) as a terrible, _awful_ , _HILARIOUS_ idea hits him. He'll probably get his head stomped in, but whatever, he can't just let the idea go.

For a minute, he's really pissed off at Spencer for missing this. And then he launches into the song, starting the intro slow and sad, almost dirge-like, as he croons _Tonight it's very clear, as we're both lying here_. Down the way, the soldiers stop and just watch him, gaping.

The next four and a half minutes are, quite possibly, some of the longest and greatest minutes of Brendon's life. Seriously, he _cannot believe_ Spencer isn't here to see this, he fucking _belted_ the first chorus, and if he's not mistaken, a couple of the soldiers are singing along with him once he gets to the last chorus, and they all warble _I am a man who will fight for your honor; I'll be the hero you're dreaming of_ together.

This is his greatest moment, right here. Brendon is _totally fucking sure_ of it. He lets the last chords die away on the guitar and glances over at the band of soldiers, who are all gazing at him in awe. One of them is subtly wiping his eyes.

"Yeah, all right," one of them finally says, gruffly, and they all exchange super-manly nods, and then Brendon can't help laughing to himself, quietly, as he starts the intro for Respect.

The hours pass pretty quickly, actually. One of the soldiers teaches Brendon a seriously filthy tavern song, and another one gets him a pork bun. Brendon smiles his thanks and carefully picks off as much of the bread as he can eat, leaving only a snowball-looking bullet of dough-covered pig, which he carefully sets on the corner of his case, until he manages to subtly give it away to one of the hungry-looking kids who keeps watching him.

The bread doesn't do much to help with the dizziness, though. It's starting to make his head really ache, and the constant singing and music isn't helping, and the sun's beating down on his head pretty fiercely now that afternoon's set in. Brendon sighs and shakes himself, trying to wake up, and launches into the Rainbow Connection, leaning his head back against the wall.

"All right?" one of the soldiers yells. Brendon nods and closes his eyes for a second, swallowing against the sudden taste of bile in his throat - apparently, nodding is now out of the question. He sucks in a couple deep breaths of air, and goes through the motions, picking out the first few measures of Canon in D before he slumps down, his hand falling off the strings. God, he feels _weird_ , his head is buzzing like a swarm of bees, and he feels like he's going to puke but seriously, what the fuck could he even puke up?

After a handful of seconds (he just needs to stay quiet and still for a couple of minutes, he'll be okay), there are hands, large and warm on Brendon's shoulders, and Brendon swallows again as he tries to recoil away from the added heat. His face feels like it's on fire. "Boy," a voice murmurs, close to him. "Come on, get y'up, we'll get you home."

Brendon takes a quick breath. "Fat chance," he mutters, frowning a little, still not quite up to opening his eyes. "I'll be okay."

"Where you staying?"

"Tonight? Dunno," Brendon mumbles truthfully. He opens his eyes and gives the man a wry smile. "Probably here." He tries to blink his eyes open and fails, closing them again, slumping his head down until his cheek is resting against the poor guy's hand. "Is Spence awake yet? Wasn't _that_ big a fall off the tower, but. Guess he lost a lot of blood," he muses, not really registering when the guy sucks in a breath, and draws his hand back as if Brendon's burned him.

"Oi!" he hears someone shouting, and Brendon can hear a lot of footsteps coming over and a few people asking how he knew about a tower before their voices go all tinned and distorted and Brendon happily lets the darkness swallow him up.

 

He blinks one eyes halfway open and glances around, confused by white walls and gilt mirrors. There's a glass of water on the table a foot away from him that Brendon would absolutely _kill_ for, but he can't seem to move very well.

 _...yeah, it's her. She had Spencer's knife in her bag..._ he can hear someone saying, outside in the hallway. Brendon has just enough time to register _Shane_ before he feels himself going back under.

 

When he wakes up again, Spencer's sitting in the chair beside his bed.

Brendon immediately tries to sit up, and almost immediately registers a headache that could kill a horse. "Fuck," he grumps, and then he grabs for the glass of water that was teasing him a couple of hours ago and downs it. Then he just fucking _beams_ at Spence, who's starting to smile down at the bedclothes as well.

"Hey," he breathes, once he's finished gulping down his water, almost choking on it. He forces the headache to a backburner, he has more important things to deal with right now. "Hey, Spence, hey."

"Hey," Spencer murmurs, inching one hand across the bedcovers, his fingers spidering along until Brendon laughs and grabs for them, twining them with his own. "Fuck, where have you _been_?" he demands, frowning down at the blanket, near their fingers.

"Down in town," Brendon admits, squeezing his fingers, resisting the impulse to just. _Grab_ for him, and not let go. "I didn't know where to go."

"Well, _here_ , obviously," Spencer says, sounding kind of hurt. "What the fuck, Brendon."

"Dude, I kind of thought you were dead," Brendon tells him kindly, hoping Spence doesn't notice the all-over shiver his body gives, at that.

Spencer's frown deepens, and he traces his other fingers lightly over the edge of Brendon's bed, the blanket there. He turns his head towards the door, and for the first time, Brendon can see a faint spiderwebbing of scratches all along Spencer's neck, the occasional puncture wound that's almost entirely healed over. Some of the lines are still red and angry-looking. Brendon wonders if they'd ever fade.

"God, Spence," he murmurs, reaching out to touch his fingertips to the lines carefully. He's sort of startled at how hard Spencer flinches at that, but he holds still afterwards, and lets Brendon trace over the lines gently. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, too lightly to actually be believed. "Are _you_?"

"Yeah, just didn't eat for a couple of days," Brendon says, gesturing flippantly. "I'll be fine. ...Kind of have a motherfucker of a headache, though. I'm not going to lie."

"Oh." Spencer's eyebrows quirk a little. "Well, look. Go back to sleep, and I'll go find whatever they use for painkillers, okay?"

Brendon frowns, but he lies back against the pillow obediently, staring at Spencer, intent. Spence is still staring down at his own hand, fidgeting, basically being a picture of avoidance. "Spencer."

"Hmm?" he mutters, still keeping his head trained down.

"Spencer _Smith_."

Spencer sighs, and pushes his hair out of his face irritably, scowling. " _What_ , Brendon."

Brendon sits up a little, and ducks his head down, trying to actually _see_ him. "Look at me."

Spencer stills. He takes in a long breath and then expels it, and stands up abruptly, twisting his fingers over the edge of his chair as he turns towards the windows, taking a couple of steps that way before he appears to lose his nerve and just folds his arms across his chest. "Seriously, just go back to sleep, okay? You're supposed to be resting, they'll yell at me."

"I will when you _fucking look at me_ ," Brendon snaps, reaching behind him to grab a pillow to hurl in Spence's direction. It bounces against his hip and lands on the ground, and Spencer jumps slightly, startled, and turns on instinct to look for what hit him. Brendon blinks, and tilts his head, trying to figure out what just - there was something weird with Spencer's eyes. "Spence?" he says again, confused.

Spence lifts his head up, scowling, and Brendon sucks in a quiet breath - at the collection of scratches and scars on his face, and at the way his eyes are kind of...blank. "Yep, sorry, can't," Spence says shortly. "So just go to sleep anyway, okay?"

Brendon gapes at him. "What." Seriously, Spencer's eyes have _never looked like that._ A knot of anxiety is starting to expand low in his stomach, he swallows against it. "Spence, you. What."

"Dude, I fell into a huge fucking patch of ten-feet-tall brambles. Surprise, some of them scratched places that shouldn't be scratched," Spencer says, his voice going sort of brittle and hard. "So, y'know, could you just. Pretend not to watch while I try to figure out where in the room I am? I lost count of my steps."

Brendon stares at him for a second, and then lets out a shuddery breath, squeezing his eyes shut against a sudden barrage of images of Spencer lying quiet in the brambles, his blood slipping over his skin like rain. "Oh god," he squeaks. "Look, let's go back and kill her, okay? You're the prince, you could totally get away with it."

Spencer snorts and shakes his head a little, and glances - well, _almost_ in Brendon's direction. His eyes are more clouded, murkier than normal, Brendon realizes. He's starting to figure out how expressive Spencer's eyes are only in their absence, and the differences are beginning to make him feel queasy with guilt.

The headache Brendon was trying to ignore is quickly reasserting itself, and he just _stares_ at Spencer for a few long seconds, watching him hold himself stiff and unsure. It's completely unnatural and really unnerving, Spencer's correct posture, the white-knuckled grip he has on the back of his chair. "Fuck," Brendon breathes, clenching his jaw down on an urge to just bury his face in his hands and _wail_.

Instead, he gets up and crosses over to the window, making sure to make a fair amount of noise, so he doesn't freak Spence the fuck out. He reaches to touch Spencer's sleeve lightly, and ducks his head at the flinch Spencer gives, and then crowds into his space, wrapping both arms around him tight.

"It's okay," Spencer assures him, giving an all-over shiver and sliding his arms around Brendon's shoulders loosely.

Brendon shudders into his collarbones and shakes his head. "You're _not_ ," he protests, "you can't _see_."

"Beethoven couldn't see," Spencer points out. " _Or_ hear."

"Beethoven was an overachiever," Brendon huffs. "I want to help."

"No," Spencer says immediately. There's a brief, intensely awkward silence between the two of them, until finally Spencer deflates a little. "Am I turned in the direction of the door?" he asks, voice sort of small as he draws his arms away.

"Yeah," Brendon says, equally cowed as he reluctantly pulls away. "Maybe like, ten steps?"

Spencer nods and starts walking in a careful, straight line, shuffling his feet a little as he goes. He manages to navigate the doorway with startling agility, considering he could see it just two weeks ago, and Brendon's sort of impressed, despite wanting to run after him and hug him some more. He curls up on his bed and eventually, someone actually comes to give him some medicinal stuff that tastes like shit, but makes his headache fade. _Spence._

Eventually, he falls asleep again - apparently Spencer hadn't been lying about him needing to rest.

 

Six hours later, Brendon's wandering the corridors of the castle, trailing his fingertips along the edge of the wainscoting as he gives small, shy smiles to passersby and pretty much just tries to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

After wandering around for a good forty-five minutes, though, he gives up and asks a servant where he can find Prince Spencer. Apparently, orders among the house staff are circulated fairly quickly, because the girl doesn't even give Brendon a second look - she just smiles and curtsies, and leads him on his way.

It's not a long walk. Brendon glances up at the portraits lining the hallway to Spencer's rooms, and finds - to his delight - that there's already one of Spence, just before they get to his rooms. Portrait Spencer is smirking down at him, hand on one cocked hip, and the whole thing is so incredibly lifelike that Brendon can't help chuckling a little.

The servant girl flashes him a cautionary look, and Brendon shuts up, arranging his face into a more serious expression as he follows her into the prince's chambers. She leads him into the sitting room and leaves him there, saying his highness had decided to retire early that evening, but had given orders to let Brendon in whenever she wanted.

The girl gives Brendon an assessing look, then shrugs a shoulder and leaves him to it, smirking a little as she closes the door. Brendon rolls his eyes and marches through the sitting room, opening up three pairs of huge doors before he finds what he's looking for - the entrance to Spencer's bedroom.

At the other end of the massive room, Spencer's curled up on top of a bed twice the size of any they've seen back home. Brendon watches him for a couple of seconds, before steeling himself and heading toward the bed.

Up close, Brendon can see the intricate stitches on Spencer's eyelids, the bruising that still hasn't faded. His forehead is still a mess, but the scratches on his cheeks and chin have appeared to heal pretty well. And of course, Brendon's seen the ones on his neck, and now on his hands too.

Brendon can't help it, his heart _hurts_ a little as he looks Spence over, taking in every mark on him. "Spence?" he murmurs, quiet, hovering near to Spencer's ears. "Hey. You awake?"

A moment of quiet, and then Spencer stirs, frowning and flopping onto his side grumpily. "Am now," he grumbles, reaching up to rub at his eyes reflexively, just stopping himself before his fingers make contact. Brendon winces as Spencer scowls, and brings his hand back down. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Brendon assures him, gazing at him for a couple of seconds before his mind is set. "Move over, c'mon," he orders, poking at Spence until he squawks and complies, shifting over on the huge mattress so that Brendon can lie down in the exact spot Spencer had been occupying.

"Needy," Spencer huffs, though Brendon can tell he's trying not to smile. He pokes and bullies Spencer until they're twined up to his liking, and then Brendon settles down, brushing Spencer's hair out of his face.

"What about you?" Brendon thinks to ask, a few minutes later. "Everything okay? Seriously."

Spencer shuts his mouth against the sarcastic answer he was going to give, and tilts his head, actually _thinking_ about his response. "Yeah," he says finally, nodding a little as he says it. "It's - well, it's not great, but seriously. I can't complain. It's only going to last til this one's over." He shrugs a shoulder, and then presses his lips together tight, his eyebrows knitting together. "Fucking...people are _tough_ , man. I can barely handle this shit and I remember what all of these rooms _look_ like. It's sort of...I don't know, humbling?"

Brendon blinks, sort of shocked by Spencer's answer. "Wow, look at you. Growing as a person." He smirks a little and hugs Spencer's head, wriggling when Spencer squawks and starts poking him everywhere. "This summer camp was _such_ a good idea!" Brendon continues, pleased at the way Spencer's actually _smiling_. "It really builds character."

"Got your character right here," Spencer says, darting his arm out, catching Brendon on the shoulder and sliding up. Brendon's breath freezes in his throat, and he holds carefully still as Spencer's hand travels lightly up his neck, brushing against the shell of his ear before his fingers twist and he viciously pulls a piece of Brendon's hair.

They tussle for a few more minutes, until both of them are panting a little, pleased grins flitting over their mouths. Brendon watches Spencer with no small amount of satisfaction, pleased at the lack of self-consciousness in his spine and in where he lets his eyes land. He can't help himself, Brendon lunges forward, wrapping both arms around Spence in a tight hug. "Missed you," he admits, tilting his head so his nose is pressed up against Spencer's chest and he doesn't have any alternative but to just breathe him in.

Spence stills, and after a few confused seconds, wraps both arms around him, too. "You too," he murmurs. "I was worried."

"You, worried?" Brendon drawls, poking his shoulder til Spencer huffs and grabs for his hand, drawing it back down around himself. Brendon shivers a little at that, and sinks down against him a little more.

"Stranger than fiction, seriously," Spencer nods, solemn. There's a long pause, then, where they both try to hide how they're both smiling a little, and then Spencer shuffles down, twisting them around til he's got his cheek pressed to Brendon's shoulder. "Okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," Brendon says, sort of surprised, though he doesn't say anything further. Slowly, he moves his hand up into Spencer's hair and strokes through it, moving them gently until Spencer gives a little sigh and sinks against him. "Going to go to sleep?" Brendon murmurs.

"Probably," Spence admits. "Haven't been sleeping too well."

Brendon tsks, but otherwise doesn't respond - he just keeps sifting his fingers through Spence's hair, until he feels Spencer's breathing start to even and deepen, feels the last of the tension leave his arms.

He cranes his head, as much as he can so that he can just _look_ at Spencer again. He looks better already - less anxious, a little happier. Even so, though, there are still the spiderwebs of scratches and then purple-blue bruises and puckered stitches in Spencer's eyes. Brendon lets himself stare for a while, brushing his thumb over them when he gets his courage up.

He spares a thought for the past week, for how lonely and freaked-out he was on his own, somewhere he didn't know. At least he hadn't been on his own, somewhere he didn't know, and in the fucking _dark_. Brendon bites his lip, and tries not to shiver as he sends a cosmic text message to all the gods again, thanking them for the fact of Spencer Smith and his particular fucked-up brand of stoicism.

Spencer exhales and mutters something about _shampoo_ grumpily into Brendon's chest, making Brendon's shoulders shake with silent laughter, before he gets himself under control. He grins, and pushes Spencer's hair off his forehead again, and then - well, he just.

It can't really hurt anything, and Spencer won't let Brendon help him when he's actually _conscious_ , so really, it's Spencer's fault. Brendon has to take his opportunities when they present themselves, so he doesn't really feel guilty for ducking down and examining Spence's eyes again, before he just barely presses his lips to the paper-thin skin covering them, first the left, and then the right.

There, he's done. Brendon bites his bottom lip and shifts on the bed a little, and then closes his eyes, almost contented.

"Mmph," Spencer grumbles, squeezing his arm around Brendon's middle, fidgeting enough that Brendon opens his eyes to see what's going on, for a second.

"Okay?" he yawns, stretching a little, before slumping in against Spence comfortably, so that they're almost level again.

"Mhm," Spence hums, his eyelids fluttering a little, halfway opening before they close again. Brendon gives him a fond, probably silly grin, and is almost about to hug him tighter when Spencer's eyes open _again_ , all the way this time, pointed right at Brendon.

Brendon winces and pulls back a little, a little freaked out before he notices that Spencer's eyes are sort of...focused, intense on him. They hadn't been that way, before.

"Um." He pauses, and laughs a little. "Spence?" he asks, kind of nervous, unable to pull his eyes away from Spencer's.

"Hey," Spencer breathes, breaking into a huge grin. "Hey, you," he manages, reaching up to Brendon's shoulder and looking down, tracking his hand as it moves. "Fuck, you've lost weight," Spence hisses, sucking in a breath, giving Brendon a reproachful look. "What the hell, you should be _eating_ more."

Brendon's still fucking _shocked_. He gapes a couple seconds more, and then starts giggling, having to press a hand to his mouth to try to stay quiet and not alarm anyone. "Oh my god," he says, beaming. "Seriously?"

"Yep," Spencer says, beaming back. "Wow, you look like shit."

"So do you, fucker, you look like you tried to make out with Pinhead," Brendon shoots back, looking sort of horrified at himself as he realizes what he's just said. Spencer just laughs, though, exhilarated and beaming straight at him.

Brendon beams back, and reaches up to cup his face cheerfully, squeezing his cheeks, teasing. "Oh my god," he says again, his face hurting from smiling so much. "Hi."

"Hi," Spencer says back, his smile beginning to shift down into something more comfortable, something kind of softer. Brendon finds himself sucking in a small breath and echoing Spencer's expression, gazing at him quietly.

He notices, after a little bit, that Spencer's eyes keep sliding down to his mouth. Brendon's breath hitches, and he can't help grinning again, biting his lip to keep it from getting away from him. "Hi," he breathes again, his fingers stroking through the downy hair behind Spencer's ears.

"...Yeah, hi," Spencer mutters, glancing back up to give Brendon a sort of startled look before he - oh, oh god, oh _fuck_ \- he starts to crane up. Brendon stops breathing, he stops moving, he's pretty sure his _heart_ stops beating.

Brendon's so focused on Spence that he doesn't notice when the edges of his world start to go white. Spencer moves up closer and Brendon closes his eyes and waits for a touch, the kiss that never comes - it takes a few seconds, but when he opens his eyes to yell _what the hell_ at Spencer and sees himself surrounded by white white white, the penny finally drops.

"Mother _fucker_ ," he snarls, just before he pops out of existence.


	7. the seventh story

To say that Spencer is pissed is kind of an understatement. He's completely calm on the outside, collected and together and very very _Zen_. Inside, though, he's planning the best ways to completely destroy a book of fairy tales - and, depending on time constraints, the bookstore where he got it.

He's pretty much decided on shredding each individual page separately and _then_ setting the shredded pages on fire, when the world comes entirely back into focus. The store...he'll have to do some research when he gets back home, it's been ages since he's made a Molotov cocktail (that afternoon with Andy had been...informative and strangely exhilarating). He just needs to remember to use one of Pete's work computers instead of his own. He doesn't need Homeland Security all up in his shit.

...Seriously, he'd been _so close_. So fucking close, and Brendon wasn't horrified, he seemed _into_ it, he'd closed his eyes and everything. _Fuck_ , Spencer thinks, for probably the twentieth time in ten seconds, as he closes his eyes and remembers the way Brendon went still and kind of expectant, there in bed. _Fuck fuck fuck_.

Whatever. Spencer isn't going to waste any more time when Brendon shows up, that's for damn sure. He scowls, and slides off of the lumpy mattress of his bed and goes to take a quick look in the mirror - the scars and scratches are _gone_ , thank fuck, but so is his beard. Spencer grimaces, his shoulders deflating a little before he looks down and...yep. Wearing a dress.

Well, a nightgown, but there's lace on it, so he's comfortable making a few assumptions about his role in the new story. He grumbles a little and rubs a hand through his hair, til its standing up in peaks at the back, and makes a series of faces at himself in the mirror until he's feeling up to trying to find some decent clothes and trying to figure out who the hell he's supposed to be, this time.

There's a bowl and pitcher next to the dresser with cold but clean-looking water, so Spencer pours out a bit into the bowl and cups his hands, drinking til the back of his throat doesn't feel like paper anymore. Then he splashes his face, sucking in a breath as his skin registers the coldness, blinking water out of his eyelashes as he immediately starts to grope for a towel.

After a few seconds he finds one and rubs his face quickly, shivering once before he blinks his eyes open and wets one corner of the towel, wringing it out and scrubbing it quickly over his neck and ears. While he's doing that, he glances around, taking in his little ramshackle room. The bed with the lumpy mattress is pressing up against the far wall, underneath a tiny port window. There's a dresser missing one drawer, and the tiny mirror, and the pitcher, and over at the other end of the room is an ancient and rickety-looking wardrobe, but that's it as far as furniture and decoration goes. Spencer's pretty sure this room is about as big as his _bed_ was, in Rapunzel.

Spence sighs and sets the scrap of towel down, reaching to grab the bowl and pour it...out the window, or something, whatever, but then he lets out an embarrassingly girly shriek and hops away a good five feet, startled half to death by the teeny little bird just hanging out, all _oh hey sup_ , on the table just inches from his fingers.

Spencer stares at it nervously, as the bird - seriously, it's fucking looking _right at him_ , what the shit - tilts its head and chirps, once.

"Um," he manages, before he just bites his lip and gives up. He takes a step forward and reaches his fingertips gingerly forward until he can _just_ snatch the towel off the table, and then he spreads it out in both hands, stepping forward carefully.

The bird doesn't even react, just watches him coming with a curious, disturbingly intelligent look in its black eyes. Spencer winces, and finds himself muttering "Sorry" - which, _seriously?_ \- just before he tosses the towel over the bird and scoops it up quickly, hopping over to the window with a frantic, hissed _shitshitshitshitshit_ before he thrusts the towel outside and opens it, bouncing the squawking bird out of his hand and into the open air.

Spencer watches, horror-stricken, as for the first couple of seconds the bird doesn't even open its _wings_ , but then it seems to catch on and it flaps away, still gravelling angrily about its treatment. "Sorry," he says again, before he can catch himself, and then a little brass bell over his doorway begins to ring.

Spencer does a pretty good job of ignoring the first one, but within thirty seconds, _three_ bells have all begun to ring, jangling incessantly until it looks like they should just come off their hooks. He watches them curiously for a while, tilting his head, and then he shrugs and heads over to the wardrobe, sorting through the various patched-up, shabby dresses until he comes across an old pair of trousers and a linen shirt tucked carefully away in a corner. They kind of have "sentimental value" written all over them, but when Spencer shakes the pants out, they look to be about the same size as he is, and he shucks the nightgown off and gets dressed in record time.

The bells are _still_ going as Spencer's doing up the last button on the shirt, and really, that fucking bell noise is getting on his last nerve. He glares at them, and then stomps over to the door and unhooks the tiny clapper inside each one, rendering them silent.

"Good," he says, storing the pieces of brass in his pocket, watching with satisfaction as the bells jump and shake noiselessly. He turns back around, and starts - there, on the windowsill, are _two_ birds this time.

They both appear to be carbon-copies of the one Spencer already took care of, which is fucking weird enough, but they also appear to be watching him. _Glaring_ at him, more like. The back of his neck starts to prickle unpleasantly, and Spencer stares at them, frowning suspiciously, as he backs up to the door and opens it, letting himself out.

Once he's on the landing, Spencer closes the door carefully behind himself, and tries not to think about claws and sharp beaks and Alfred Hitchcock movies.

He has to hold on tight to the handrail to navigate the rickety stairs - apparently his room is in a tower or an attic or something - and once he actually manages to get to the rest of the house, he steps into chaos.

"Where have you _been_?" Jackie shouts at him, scowling fiercely as she waves a couple of scraps of fabric between them. " _Ohmygod_ , of all the days for you to decide to _sleep in_ ," she huffs, pushing the scraps into his hands, giving him a supremely unimpressed look that Spencer knows all too well.

"Morning to you too," he drawls, despite his inability to keep from grinning - it's _Jackie_ , it's the first member of his family he's seen in weeks, and he's not going to be able to put her as squarely in her place as he normally would. He's too fucking happy to see her. "What the hell am I supposed to do with _this_?" he asks, looking dubiously down at the fabric in his hands.

He looks up, and is...actually a little startled at the flat-out loathing he can suddenly see in Jackie's eyes. "God," she sneers. "You _mend_ them, dumbass. You take them and you find the holes and you sew them up!" She pauses, and then gives him a hateful little smile. "Is that too much? Should I write it down for you?" She pauses, and tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. "Can you even read?"

Spencer stares at her, his mouth hanging open stupidly. Both of them are distracted, though, by a voice screeching from further down the hallway. "JACKIE, WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY FUCKING GLOVES?" Spencer hears, recognizing Crystal's voice, and then Jackie's rolling her eyes and flouncing off.

"Language, dears," his mother's voice wafts up from downstairs somewhere, and Spencer's knees nearly buckle from the sudden weight of homesickness and stomach-twisting happiness he feels at hearing it. He almost drops the stuff Jackie gave him, and starts towards the stairway, towards finding his Mom and giving her the biggest fucking hug he can manage.

"And when your sister _deigns_ to come down from her room, someone tell me," she continues. "She didn't do half her chores last night and I think we all deserve an explanation."

Spencer stops, on the top of the stairs, frozen. He's...never actually heard his mom sound like that before, lazy and annoyed and - fuck, and _mean_. Spencer's stomach quickly turns to lead, and he feels a weird little shiver of fear, an ache spreading through him as he remembers the look in Jackie's eyes. Something in the back of his throat tastes bitter, almost like metal, and Spencer looks down at the pile of stockings in his hands.

One of the stockings slithers between his fingers and falls to the floor, and Spencer just stares at it for a second, sort of frozen where he is. Then - he should freak out, he knows - a mouse pokes its nose out of a crack between the floorboards and the wall, and then its ears appear.

Spencer watches, dumbstruck, as the mouse twitches its ears and then its head, and then scurries out into the open. It moves towards him, getting closer to his foot, but Spencer just stays stock still and doesn't even _breathe_ , and watches as the mouse stops at the stocking and...picks it up, holding up a section in its teeth. Then it pushes itself up on its hind legs and wobbles for a couple of seconds, before it grabs the stocking and fucking _holds it up_.

Spencer blinks. _Oh_ , he thinks to himself, finally realizing which story it is just before he bends over and takes the stocking carefully from out of the mouse's paws. "Thanks," he mutters, before he moves silently down the stairs and in the opposite direction of his mom, not stopping until he finds a door that will take him _outside_.

 

Spencer carefully, thoughtfully buries the stockings in a corner of the garden. He's willing to bet that Jackie's room is as messy here as it was when they were growing up back home, so he can just say he _did_ mend them, and put them on her bed, and she'll go crazy looking for them.

A bird lands on his shoulder, and to his credit, Spencer only jumps a little before he just mentally shrugs and finishes tamping the dirt back down. He wipes his eyes quickly, sniffing once, and then he stands up straight and squares his shoulders, taking a couple of deep breaths as he reminds himself that it's a fucking _story_ , it's not real; animals aren't normally so helpful and the Jackie and Crystal and Mom here are _not_ his family.

Spencer marches back into the house and after a few wrong doors, finds his mom's bedroom. He hardens his expression and his heart, but it's still a wrench at first, seeing her sitting on a pouf in front of her dresser, wearing a look of disgust as she regards him in the mirror. "What on earth are you wearing?" she asks.

"Clothes," he says shortly, raising his eyebrows, expectant. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I noticed the sitting room wasn't dusted last night, and couldn't discover why."

"Yeah, I'll be sure to get on that," Spencer drawls, leaning against the doorframe.

"Oh, well, nevermind that today," she sighs, irritated, rooting through a jewelry box. "Just help your sisters before they kill each other, trying to get ready for the ball tonight."

 _Aha_. Spencer tries to keep his poker face, but he's a little worried his not-mom saw him go a little wide-eyed. "Oh, right, the ball," he says, casual. "For Prince..."

"Brendon," not-Mom huffs, turning to give Spencer a disdainful look. "Not that it concerns _you_. Now, go on, you've certainly got enough to keep you busy."

Spencer rolls his eyes, but shoves off of the doorframe and heads down the hall, sticking his hands in his pockets as he saunters down towards where he can hear the twins screaming at each other about...ribbons, or hairbows, or something.

The next six hours do two things: they make Spencer _really_ miss his real sisters, and they give him a new understanding and respect for the costumers and make-up people and...basically everyone who's ever had to deal with Panic, especially during the NRWC days. Looking back, Spencer's not really sure how he and the rest of his band made it out of that tour alive, and not all stabbed in the neck with an angled eyeshadow brush.

"Hold _still_ ," he hisses at Crystal, who gives him a smirk and continues swinging her leg, constantly knocking him in the shin as he hovers over her and tries to make sure her rouge is even. "Fine, it's your fucking fault if you wind up looking like a clown."

"Sort of doubt Mom'll see it that way," Crystal points out cheerfully, smiling up at him beatifically. "So, what're you going to do tonight, while the rest of us are at the palace dancing our heads off?"

"The Prince," Spencer mutters before he can stop himself. He can _feel_ his blush start to rise up his neck, but he presses his lips together tight and grabs Crystal's chin, forcing her to stay still as he sweeps shadow over both her eyelids. For not the first time, Spencer really wishes Ryan were here - he was always a lot better with makeup than the rest of them.

"Where are my stockings?" Jackie scowls, stomping around the room. "Did you finish mending them?"

"Yeah, I put them on your bed," Spencer says calmly, smirking a little when he hears Jackie's muttered _fuck_. It's only a few seconds before he can hear quiet thumps and bangs of things being thrown off of her bed and hitting the floor. "You've got to do your own liner and mascara," he tells Crystal, sitting back and stretching.

Crystal glances over at herself in the mirror and squints, pursing up her lips. "Not your best work," she eventually pronounces, giving Spencer a frustrated sigh. Spencer rolls his eyes and escapes while he can, wandering around until he finds the entrance to the kitchens. He walks down a short flight of stairs and breathes a little easier at the way the air immediately grows cooler, and starts looking around for something to eat.

There's an orange and some bread, which Spencer supposes will do - fuck, he's just grateful it's Brendon who gets to be in the castle for this one, he was looking kind of _gaunt_ at the end of the last story. Spencer picks at the bread, digging out the white insides and leaving the hard crust, eventually moving for the back door and throwing it outside, for the birds. By the time he's peeled and settled into his orange, eating the segments as slowly as he can, he can hear Jackie and Crystal and now his mother thumping around just above him, shouting at each other as they finish putting on gloves and pins and pearls.

The door to the kitchens opens, and Spencer cringes away, tucking himself as far into his corner as possible. "Spencer," Crystal calls down, sounding irritated, "Mom says you have to come see us off. So _hurry up_ , the carriage is already waiting."

Spencer groans and pops the orange segment he'd been nursing into his mouth, pushing away from the wall and trudging towards the stairs and the door. Upstairs, Jackie is tapping her foot and giving him a hideous glare, his mother is still fiddling with her earrings, and Crystal is messing with one curl of hair that won't stay put. "Bye," Spencer says, giving them a little wave and immediately turning to go back downstairs.

"Just a moment," his mother snaps. Spencer cringes, but pastes a smile on his face before he turns back around and raises his eyebrows at her.

"I expect the sitting room to be dusted by the time we return," she says, putting her gloves on carefully, not even looking at him. "The garden needs weeding and the kitchen and pantry need a good scrub. And do something about this foyer, it's filthy."

Spencer just stares at her, folding his arms. She gives him a small, smug smile (which almost makes him feel better - he's never seen _his_ mom look like that), and props her hands on her hips. "Now, wish your sisters luck that the prince will ask them to dance."

"Good luck getting the Prince to ask you to dance and marry him and make a dozen babies," Spencer says flatly, his expression unchanging. He injects more than a little bit of sarcasm into his words, making Jackie scowl even more fiercely. Crystal just snorts and tosses her hair.

"Fuck that, I'm going for the dancing," she says firmly, pretending not to notice the horrified look her mother throws her. "See you, Spence," she says, as her mother and Jackie are bustling out the door and down to the carriage. "I'll steal a piece of cake for you."

"Thanks," Spencer says wryly, leaning against the doorframe as he watches them all stumble and wobble as they try to get inside the carriage. Finally, they're inside and it pulls off, the horses' shoes and the wheels making a racket that slowly fades into the distance.

Spencer takes a breath as soon as the carriage is out of sight, and turns back to the house, slouching back inside and shutting the door behind him.

He just wanders for a little bit, til he's seen every room, and then Spencer thinks about actually cleaning. Two seconds later, he snorts and heads back to the kitchens, grabbing another orange before he strolls out to the garden to take a look around.

He stays outside and watches the sunlight edge past its harsh late afternoon glare and start shooting red and pink rays out into the evening sky, bright against the encroaching dark. Eventually, he finds his way back into the house, and for some reason Spencer gravitates towards his not-mother's bedroom.

There's a small portrait of her and his dad (with an impressive handlebar mustache) on the dresser, and Spencer stares at it for a long time, picking it up to peer at their happy expressions. He wonders what happened to the dad in this story, but only for a few seconds, before he can feel himself starting to tense up and he quickly has to turn his attention to something else.

The cut-glass perfume decanters are catching the light of the sunset, prisming it into different colors onto the surface of the dresser. Spencer picks one up and almost spills it, setting it down quickly and looking around the room for something less breakable.

After another five minutes of looking around, Spencer can't really fool himself anymore. He takes in a deep, shaky breath, and looks once around the room just to make sure there's no one else there (there are a couple of birds hopping on the closed windowsill, and he's pretty sure a couple of mice are watching him, but whatever), and then he slides onto his parents' bed and curls up, his face pressed against Fake Mom's pillow.

It just figures that however different and quasi-evil she might be, she smells exactly the same as _his_ mom, his _real_ mom. Spencer shudders at the familiar combination of roses and jasmine and hunches in on himself a little more, breathing in deep a couple of times before he presses his eyes shut tight. He's never felt anything but love from his family, and feeling the difference is fucking with his head.

After a few minutes of shivering, fighting against the stinging happening behind his eyelids, Spencer takes a couple of breaths and recovers. He thinks _hard_ about his real mom, and his real sisters, and his dad, and how in _his_ family there was always a lot of arguing but there was _more_ laughter.

He thinks about growing up with constant barbecues in the summer, and lazy, cheerful Christmases, and the twins bickering over whether to watch reruns of Family Guy or ANTM, and Ryan having _carte blanche_ to the house at all hours ever since Spencer was twelve, and his parents' concerned-but-supportive faces when he told them about Maryland. Spencer thinks _god, I'm really fucking lucky_ before he drifts, floating off into a light sleep.

 

When he wakes up, it's dark outside, and there's a weird glow in the bedroom. Spencer blinks his eyes open fully, and lets out a fucking humiliating shriek as he sees someone hovering at the end of the bed, watching him curiously. "Hey," the figure says, waggling its long fingers.

Spencer rubs his eyes and blinks again. "What the - Gabe?" He sits up, yawning a little, peering at him. "Why the fuck're you glowing?"

"Hey, I think I'll ask the questions," Gabe fucking Saporta tells him, giving him a severe look as he just keeps on hovering over the bed, legs crossed in mid-air. "One," Gabe says, holding up a finger, "how the fuck do you know my name? And two, why are you a dude?" he asks, adding another finger. "And three," he says, tilting forward, giving Spencer a very serious look, "do you have any food?"

"Um," Spencer says, frowning as he considers the questions. "Lucky guess, I was born that way, and I think there are still some oranges in the kitchen?"

Gabe screws up his mouth, watching Spencer suspiciously for a handful of seconds, before he shrugs his shoulders and relaxes, giving him a grin. "Sweet. Okay, be right back. Don't you go _anywhere_ ," he says, giving Spencer a mildly upsetting leer, before he pops out of existence and half a second later pops right back, this time with a couple of oranges in his hands. "Okay so," he says to Spence, peeling the orange, flicking pieces of peel onto Fake Mom's bedcovers, "first things first. My name is Gabe - which you already know, because you are psychic - and I am your awesome fairy godfather." He waggles his eyebrows expectantly, and pops an orange segment in his mouth.

"...I'm Spencer," Spence says after a beat, watching Gabe warily. He's not used to one-on-one interactions with Saporta, there's usually a buffer zone involving Pete or Beckett or someone more used to his particular brand of weird. Not that Spencer doesn't like the guy, just -

"Oh, I'll _bet_ you are," Gabe smirks, chomping down on another piece of orange.

\- yeah. _That_. Spencer sighs and shifts on the bed, uncomfortable with the intense way Gabe is watching him.

"Not bad, not bad," Gabe says after a few seriously awkward moments - it's amazing to Spencer how Gabe is seemingly _impervious_ to the awkwardness he creates in those around him. But yeah, Gabe's still staring at him like a creeper, calm and poised as you please, and Spencer can feel his cheeks starting to flush redder and redder. "Ooh." Gabe grins - a wide, thin slice of teeth that reminds Spence of cheshire cats and sharks. "The blush is cute, we'll keep that. And the _hips_. Hot," he says, reaching out to grab for Spencer's side before Spencer squeaks and smacks his hand away, glowering. "Feisty," Gabe says, still grinning the same worrying grin, even as he sits back on his heels and gives Spencer a foot of space.

"What the fuck, dude," Spencer grumbles, pushing his hair out of his face and sitting up, folding his arms tight across his chest. "No means no."

"You didn't say no," Gabe points out cheerfully, tilting his head and watching Spencer for a couple more seconds.

"You didn't give me a chance to," Spencer snaps.

"Or you just didn't want to _take_ the chance to," Gabe singsongs, gesturing.

"I'm saying no _now_ ," Spencer shoots back immediately, still scowling at him.

Gabe tsks, and pouts a little. Which shouldn't be at all effective - he's like, ten feet tall and skinny as a lamppost, and dressed in colors that sort of make Spencer wish he was still blind, but still, Spencer feels himself relenting. "Come on, chill the fuck out," Gabe says, reaching out to twist around one of the bedposts. "Do we need to go over the mission statement, here?"

Spencer gives him an unamused look, and waits. After a few seconds, Gabe huffs and rolls his eyes.

"Mission Statement of Awesome Fairy Godfathers: One, we will get you dolled up. Two, we will get you to the ball. Three, we will get you and the Prince a little...alone time." Gabe pauses and smirks, warming to the subject. "A little seven minutes in heaven, a little - "

"No," Spencer says shortly, holding a hand up to quell the rising tide of dumbfuckery. "What's number four?"

"Four, we will get you home at midnight," Gabe says, looking sort of deflated. He holds both hands up at Spencer's shocked look. "Don't ask me, man, I tried to get it changed to three in the morning, when all the bars close. The folks upstairs weren't very _receptive_."

Spencer sighs, and rubs a hand over his face. "At least you tried, I guess."

"Only a matter of time," Gabe tells him, regaining some of his confidence, tilting his chin up. "Got an 'in' with their secretary. She totally wants to join the field agents, and I think she might have some pull, so." He shrugs a shoulder, and grins. "We'll see what happens."

"Cool." A bird flits in through the open doorway and drops down onto Spencer's shoulder, fluffing up its feathers as it starts hunkering down - Spencer doesn't even flinch. It's like the twelfth time it's happened today, after all. Gabe, however, _stares_. The bird stares back. It tilts his head in response to Gabe tilting _his_ , and lets out a soft chirrup.

It's actually pretty funny, and if Spencer wasn't vaguely homicidal about being fucking _Cinderella_ and his whole family being either dead or complete assholes, he'd probably be laughing. Eventually, Gabe scoffs and looks away.

"Fucking birds," he grumbles, shifting above the bed, giving Spencer a dark look. "And the mice, you've seen the mice, right?" He folds his arms and screw up his mouth again. "Just for the record? Those little fuckers were _not_ my idea. All right?"

"Okay," Spencer says, giving him a dubious look. He rubs his arm, and looks longingly towards the door, and wonders what would happen if he just said _fuck it_ to the whole fairy godparent idea and showed up at Brendon's place in his guy clothes.

Gabe scowls and kicks the bedpost lightly. "People kept on showing up and asking where the talking animals were, right?" he explains, gesturing expansively. Spencer cringes back a little after he almost gets hit by a flailing arm, and nods to let Gabe know he's following along. "Like _everybody_ , is there some talking animal thing where you're from?" Gabe looks at him curiously.

Spencer thinks about the effort it would take to explain the whole _Disney_ phenomenon, and shrugs instead. "Kinda," he says feebly. "It's complicated."

 _Gabe rolls his eyes, and huffs again. " _Yeah_ ," he grumbles. "So anyway, I had to go and _make_ some, and. Dude. I couldn't even - man, Spence, they were _so much cooler_ when they were all snakes, you don't even know, all right?"_

Spencer blinks. "The...snakes?'

"Fuckin' sweet little army of cobras, dude. I had them all _trained_ and everything, shit. Management turned them into birds and mice after they kept getting complaints," Gabe mutters, a mutinous expression on his face. "Something is wrong with people, that's all I'm saying."

Spencer stares at Gabe, who's fiddling with the turned-up brim of his hat idly. He watches as Gabe bites down into an orange segment and tries to suck it dry, and thinks for a couple more seconds. " _Yes_ ," he agrees finally, very firm.

Gabe gives him a pleased look, and a disconcertingly sweet smile, and offers him a section of orange. Spencer pauses, then takes it, and smiles back encouragingly. "Not everybody hates snakes," he offers, nibbling on the end of the orange piece, sucking one piece of pulp into his mouth at a time. "Keep the faith."

"Oh, don't you worry," Gabe assures him, tucking the other untouched orange into the cavernous recesses of his violently purple hoodie. "I am _full_ of conviction. Now," he says, clapping his hands together, his eyes beginning to gleam unpleasantly, "we gotta stop shooting the proverbial shit because you have a _ball_ to get to, motherfucker."

Spencer winces and shifts on the mattress, jogging one leg incessantly. "Or...you can do magic, right? So just magic the prince _here_. Less time and effort."

Gabe considers this for a moment, then sighs and shakes his head. "While you make an excellent point, I'm on my last-last-super-last chance from the _last_ girl who wanted to deviate from the plan and if I lose this job, I gotta go join the Henchman's Union with my uncle so my dad doesn't flip. And you're cool and all, Spence, but can you imagine me as some vampire's henchman or some shit?"

Spencer emphatically does _not_ think of the pictures Pete showed them of a very tall Gabe and a very drunk Mikey Way doing some very nasty dancing, and shakes his head. "No," he says, "no, I cannot."

"Of course you can't," Gabe tells him consolingly, reaching a long arm to pat his knee. "So, what colors are we thinking, for the dress?"

Spencer groans, long and miserable. "Dude, a _dress_? Come _on_."

"What part of 'last-last-super-last chance' did you not get, man?" Gabe asks him, frowning a little. "This one has to go off pretty much perfectly or I'm up shit creek, okay?" He pauses, and looks Spencer over, considering. "Look, it'll be fine, you're pretty. We can absolutely make this work. And okay, I'm not saying that you have to put out just to, y'know, save my career or anything, but...it would be really selfless and awesome if you could make sure that the prince wants to find you. If that requires some royal dick groping, I mean. I would really owe you one."

"Gabe," Spencer says calmly, "you are not my pimp. And you're not putting me in anything with petticoats. Or anything that could be described as 'fluorescent'. Or 'acid-washed'." Spencer pauses and thinks for a second. "Fucking...just put me in something black and _don't_ add heels."

Gabe makes a hideous face. "You'll look like somebody's _grandma_ , dude. Want me to add a string of pearls and a _brooch_? Maybe a sweater with flowers embroidered on it, for when you feel a draft?"

"If you can make them tasteful, sure," Spencer shoots back, folding his arms and glaring.

"I got this," Gabe frowns, stretching his legs out and actually putting them down so they touch the floor, gesturing for Spencer to slide off the bed and stand as well. He moves in a 180-degree arc around Spence, pursing his lips thoughtfully every few seconds, before he nods and stops. "Okay." And then he raises his hands and the ambient glow around him starts to intensify, brightening and brightening until Spencer has to shut his eyes and squeeze them. He can feel the room growing hotter around him from the light, and he can feel the clothes on his body shifting and stretching and - shit, _tightening_ , goddammit Gabe - into something approaching a dress.

Eventually, the light and the heat die away, and Spencer opens his eyes and immediately looks down.

He looks back up just as quickly, because _that is not black_. "What the _hell_ , Gabe," he spits. "This isn't - "

"Shut up, you're gorgeous," Gabe tells him firmly, tilting his head and looking...well, almost _proud_ of himself. Spencer glowers at him, and stomps over to the mirror on his mother's dresser, and sucks in a breath at the image it presents him.

He...Spencer feels really weird about this, because he doesn't look _bad_. It's seriously going to start hurting his head in a second, because - whatever Gabe did, Spencer doesn't look completely ridiculous, which, what. The dress is flat and simple and silver and Spencer looks sort of like he belongs in _Bugsy Malone_ , and his shoes are glass but they're flat, at least, and his eyes are dark and smoky-looking and he's got a feathered headband on his head.

 _Shit_ , Spencer thinks to himself. He looks _pretty_. He turns around, staring at himself, down at the dress and jewelery and shit, and then he notices the shaved legs. And the absence of body hair in general.

He whips around to glare at Gabe, who shifts uncomfortably. "Shut up," Gabe manages finally. "Carriage should be downstairs. It's going to be waiting at the main doors to take you _right_ at midnight, so, y'know. Don't be late."

"Or what, it turns into a pumpkin?" Spencer grumbles, inspecting the material of the dress, and the various little accessories he's starting to find everywhere. Shit, he realizes, Gabe gave him _clip-on earrings_.

"Fuck that, it's just a taxi," Gabe scoffs, leaning against the bedpost, watching him bemusedly. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, but _goddamn_ I'm good. You're like. My masterpiece."

Spencer rolls his eyes and folds his arms, shivering a little at the feeling of air on his sleeveless arms. He glances around a little self-consciously, and tries not to look down at himself. He must look like he's about to jump out of his skin or something, because Gabe clucks his tongue and comes to give Spencer what should be a comforting pat on the back, except it slides too far down, too close to his ass to really help him relax at all. "You don't fuck around," he finally tells Gabe, rueful.

"Hell _no_ I don't," Gabe agrees, looking Spence over again, sort of entranced by his own brilliance. He grins a little, and fixes Spencer's headband, and then smacks him lightly on the hip. "All right, get the hell out of here before I make a pass at you."

Spencer makes a face and goes, clopping down the stairs a little awkwardly before he gets his bearings in the shoes and walks a little easier. The carriage steps are kinda hard to navigate at first, but he manages, without even tearing the dress or _anything_. He sits down and exhales the breath he's been holding, and leans out of the carriage window enough to give Gabe an ironic salute, his face tilted up to where he can see the glowing outline hovering in the bedroom window.

The driver must've already been given his destination, because he pulls away without Spencer having to say anything. The horses' hooves dig into the pebbles of the driveway, and Spencer keeps his head out of the window and watches where they're going, keeping track of the turns they make, in his head.

After almost half an hour they arrive, so late to the ball that the rest of the carriages are already queued and quiet, the drivers gone for a pint or six to the servants' gathering rooms in the belly of the castle. Spencer's driver melts away not long after he holds the door open for him, and Spence gazes up at the huge castle, fear striking a couple of nervous chimes on his ribs as he starts to climb the stairs to the front entrance.

Nobody bothers announcing him, for which Spencer is _incredibly_ grateful, and everyone seems to have paired off or grouped together in small clusters, huddled around flutes of wine and heavy hors d'oeuvres. There's a small group of musicians at the other end of the huge ballroom, and an insistent and mostly young whirl of dancers on the dance floor. Spencer hopes Crystal found someone to dance with her.

A few of the older, matronly women near the entrance give Spencer long, disdainful once-overs and Spencer squares his shoulders, shooting them both a nasty look as he holds his chin up and walks down into the main of the ballroom. He keeps an eye out for Brendon, or the hallmarks of a group containing Brendon, but nowhere in the room is laughing particularly raucously, or bursting into impromptu choruses of summer camp songs, so Spencer's sort of flying blind. He grabs a glass of wine, downs it, and then he takes another, as plates of them whiz past him.

He laps the huge room twice, zigzagging through the first time and then circling around for the second. Some guy who looks to be about seventeen cuts straight in front of Spencer and holds him up, giving him a small, slightly unpleasant smile. He stammers a little as he asks if Spencer would like to dance the next with him.

Spencer blinks, flabbergasted, and gapes at the boy for a second before he notices that the kid's eyes keep sliding over to the right. Spencer looks over, and notices a group of four boys of about the same age, smirking or sniggering as they watch. Spencer feels his cheeks flush hot, and turns back to the boy, raising one _extremely_ expressive eyebrow.

"Well?" the boy asks, smirking a little.

Spencer considers for a second, and then steps on the boy's foot, _hard_ , with the heel of his glass shoe. "Why don't you go fuck yourself," he says as he walks past, not glancing back to watch the boy crumple and try to bite off the howl coming from the back of his throat. He remembers that high school shit, he remembers watching asshole guys do that to girls in P.E. class. He could never figure out why.

He endures a couple more stares and an open leer from some guy a foot shorter than him (seriously? _Seriously_?), and then Spencer thinks he sees his mother edging closer to him in the crowd, which, _no_ , so he grabs a glass of wine and slips deeper into the crowd, not stopping til he reaches the end, where the mass of people pauses just before it reaches the wall.

He slides along the perimeter, and eventually finds an open door that leads him outside, into the well-manicured gardens. Spencer stops and takes a couple of deep breaths, feeling the cool night air swirl all through his lungs and back out, closing his eyes as he exhales a long, low _fuck_.

When he opens them again, he moves towards the center of the garden, where there's a small, dense hedge maze. Curious, he walks the edge of it until he finds the entrance, and then Spencer glances back at the ballroom, the crush of people and the heat of the room. He has two seconds where he feels really bad for Gabe and how he's going to be so let down that Spence didn't even _see_ Brendon, and then Spencer ducks inside the maze.

The difference in temperature is amazing - even at night, inside the maze is a few degrees cooler than just outside, and Spencer rubs his bare arms irritably, folding them tight around his chest as he starts to walk to his right. He only makes it around one curve before he comes to a dead end, so he sighs and stops and goes the other way, passing the entrance again and turning right, starting to get into the body of the maze itself. The hedgerows are high, higher than they appeared to be from the outside, and Spencer glances up every now and then just so he can see the night sky and the stars and regain his equilibrium, his place in the world.

And then, Spencer turns another corner and almost groans as he sees another dead end. On closer inspection, though, he notices that the figure sitting on the ground, slumped back against the bulk of the hedgerow is actually Brendon, with his eyes closed.

Spencer can't help it, he _laughs_.

Brendon frowns irritably, and waves dismissively at Spencer, not opening his eyes. "I don't want to be disturbed," he grumbles, tilting his head so his chin is almost resting on his own shoulder.

" _Wow_ , you're in for a lifetime of disappointment," Spencer tells him solemnly, smirking a little as he watches Brendon's eyes fly open, and then sees his head whip around.

Brendon stares at him for a few seconds before Spencer remembers _oh, right. Dress_ and cringes, looking down at himself in dismay. "Dude, you don't even _want_ to kn - "

"Pretty," Brendon breathes, eyes shining up at him. Spencer knows enough about the glassiness in Brendon's eyes to know that he's not entirely sober, but he's not so far gone that Spencer should start worrying about trying to remember which way he came, so he can get them out of the maze quickly.

He lets his mouth twist, and makes a face at Brendon. "Shut up," he mutters, shuffling his feet a little, digging his heels into the dirt.

"No, hey," Brendon says, clambering up onto his feet, only swaying a tiny bit, "seriously. Were you - oh shit, did you have a fairy godmother?"

"God _father_ , actually," Spencer tells him loftily, managing to hold off on the smile for a good five seconds. "It was Gabe."

Brendon's reaction was as good as Spencer'd hoped - he immediately dissolves into laughter, reaching for Spence, taking a closer look at Spencer's outfit before he leans his head on Spence's shoulder and laughs until he almost starts hiccuping. "He did good work," Brendon says, tilting his head up again, giving Spencer a fond smile. There's a pause of only a second, and then Brendon's smile turns kind of wry. "Boy, am I glad to see _you_ ," he says, poking Spencer in his side gently.

"Yeah, me too," Spencer confesses, shifting so he can prop Brendon up against the hedgerows a little.

"I had to dance for four hours with - god, _everybody_ ," Brendon says, his voice going kind of small and sad. "And I kept waiting for you to show up, but you kept not being there."

Spencer bites his lip and rubs Brendon's arm lightly, wincing a little as he thinks of Brendon having to humor every girl's mother in his kingdom. "I'm sorry," he says, meaning it. "I got here as soon as I could."

"After Gabe made you into a pretty pretty princess," Brendon smirks, blinking up into Spencer face. His smile sharpens after a second, though, and Brendon frowns a little, standing up a little straighter. "Hang on, it's smudged," he says, reaching a hand slowly up to Spencer's cheek, weirdly hesitant before he rubs against the crease of Spencer's eyes and just under it, swiping away some shadow that had fallen onto his cheekbone.

Spencer can't help it, it's _conditioning_ from all the fucking touring and makeup and makeup _removal_ \- he closes his eyes and holds preternaturally still for Brendon, barely daring to breathe.

When he opens his eyes, Brendon's staring at his hand, and at - _shit_ , at Spencer's mouth, with a sort of uncertain, intense look on his face. Spencer sucks in his breath, chest expanding almost painfully quick, but otherwise doesn't move for another few seconds until, "Did you get it?" Brendon doesn't answer right away, not until Spencer's eyebrows have lifted up expectantly and he knows he's gone a little pink-cheeked.

"I...no. Not yet," Brendon says, his eyebrows furrowing as he darts a glance up to Spencer's eyes and then back down to his mouth again, curling up a little closer as he just, oh. Spencer's toes fight to curl in his glass shoes as Brendon, god, he brushes his fingertips against Spencer's cheek ineffectively and then traces them down over the corner of Spencer's mouth, his bottom lip. There's a small quirk of a smile flitting over Brendon's face, and Spencer makes an inquisitive noise, his breathing stuttering as Brendon rubs his thumb against his bottom lip.

"That's one big smudge," Spencer finally manages, _long_ after he should've said something.

Brendon nods, shifting up a little closer, til Spencer can feel his breath on his own chin. "Yeah, it's," Bren mumbles, his breathing going uneven and weird as Spencer darts his tongue out, mostly trying to lick his lips but swiping over Brendon's thumb along the way. " _Spence_ ," he whispers.

"Fuck," Spencer breathes, his eyes fighting to close, wanting so badly to draw his mouth over the swell of Brendon's thumb, pull it into his mouth and lick. He didn't know that - _fuck_ , he didn't think it'd be like this.

" _Shit_ ," Brendon breathes, his eyes wide and sort of transfixed on Spencer's mouth around his thumb before he pulls it away and just - Spencer's totally unprepared, he isn't _ready_ , all of his what-ifs and lazily dreamt-up scenarios and not one of them is helping him deal with watching _Brendon_ move in to kiss him. His eyes close and his heart starts rocketing around in his chest and Spencer's pretty sure he's never, ever going to stop blushing.

 

Brendon tastes like wine. Which is okay, because Spencer's pretty sure _he_ tastes like wine, but the difference is that Spencer can almost taste the salt from Brendon's thumb on his lips, and he can hear the soft _clack_ of their lips pressing together, and he can hear these little guttural whimpering sounds happening at the back of Brendon's throat. Fuck, he can almost _feel_ them, pressing up and into his mouth desperate and quick, like Brendon's tongue is flicking up behind his teeth.

Spencer shivers and slides his shaking fingers further into Brendon's hair, holding on tighter than he should, but _fuck_ Brendon makes the greatest noise at that and seems to approve, so whatever. " _Oh my god_ ," Spencer hisses, trying not to shiver or _whine_ as Brendon's hands slide over his mostly-bare back. They're _hot_ , fuck, Brendon's warm hands on his skin are making his brain short-circuit. "Hang on, Bren, we - "

"No, come on," Brendon says hastily, pressing his lips to Spencer's to keep him from finishing, moving his mouth to lick at the corner of Spencer's lips and start moving down towards his neck. Which - _shit_. Spencer shudders and tries not to tear Brendon's hair out in his rush to tilt his head to just the right place and - _yeah_. Brendon's mouth finds that spot that Spencer only ever knew about by accident (thank you, Haley's inexhaustible curiosity). His eyes fall shut for a second or two, and white explodes behind his eyelids.

Spencer's knees threaten to buckle, and he has to press his lips tight together to keep from just moaning outright, loud enough that _someone_ would come to investigate.

"Yeah, you like that?" Brendon mutters against his skin, _obviously_ pleased with himself. Startled, Spencer props one elbow on Brendon's shoulders and starts snickering quietly.

"Shut up," he mutters, twisting his head to try to exact _revenge_ by tugging Brendon's earlobe into his mouth.

"No, hey," Brendon says, his voice sounding gratifyingly strangled as Spencer nips at the soft skin just behind his ear, "it's okay, I'm sort of an e- _expert_ , fuck," he gasps, holding on tight to Spencer's back. "Shit."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were the guy who didn't know what a _clitoris_ was," Spencer purrs, delighting in the way Brendon shivers at that.

"Shut up, I was about eight years old," Brendon says, another gratifying hitch in his breath as he ducks his head, giving Spencer easy access to the rest of his neck.

"You were a junior in high school," Spencer points out, in the interest of fairness.

"Less talking, more molesting," Brendon grumbles, reaching up to slide his hand into Spencer's hair and tug him forward.

"Yeah, okay," Spencer smirks, craning his neck to lick at the very back of Brendon's neck, relishing the small groan he gives. "So hey, tell me if you're going to come, I don't want it to stain the silk," he says, pointing to the material he's wearing.

Brendon stills, and then starts laughing softly, his hand warm on Spencer's back, his fingers brushing back and forth across bare skin. "Deal," he says, ducking his head a little, shuffling his feet. He looks almost...well, _shy_.

 _Fuck_ , Spencer thinks, sort of wry. _It's ridiculous, how stupid I am for you._ Instead of saying it, though, he loosens the death grip he has on Brendon's hair, and smooths his fingers down through it, carefully brushing away the tangles and peaks.

Eventually, they get over themselves enough to actually _look_ at each other, and Spencer can't help grinning a little, fuck, Brendon's mouth is _so red_.It's awesome and hilarious and sort of crazily hot.

"What?" Brendon asks, beaming too, though he's narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Spencer shrugs his shoulders and grins some more, and leans forward, carefully, til he's just resting his forehead against Brendon's.

He pretends not to notice how Brendon tensed for a second as he was moving in. Eventually Brendon sighs and sags against him. Spencer is suddenly so, _so_ much more sober than he was two minutes ago.

Their breathing goes steadier and steadier, and Spencer can feel his grin starting to slip off his face in increments as they both realize that yeah, this all really just happened. They get to _deal_ with it now, hooray! Consequences!

And it's not that Spencer thinks Brendon's going to react really badly, or anything, but - seriously, since they were both seventeen. That's how long he's been thinking of this, exactly this. Knowing how Brendon tastes, and the noises he makes, and what they _feel_ like against his chest.

Spencer shivers a little, and tries not to grab at Brendon, or suddenly pull him so tight it's _obvious_ something's going on in his head, but he suddenly _really really needs_ to memorize absolutely everything about this moment that he can and fuck, it's already mostly slipping away.

His breath hitches.

"Spence," Brendon murmurs, and Spencer closes his eyes and swallows. "Hey, what - um."

Spencer shrugs a shoulder, tilting his head so they're almost temple to temple, unable to see each other. "What happens now?" he asks, trying very very hard not to sound accusing or nervous or...much of anything, really. Neutral.

Brendon exhales, long and loud and against Spencer's ear, the fucker. And then he shrugs, too, and traces his fingers over Spencer's back idly."Did - did you not want," he starts, before biting his lip and cutting himself off, looking sort of worried. "Um."

Spencer blinks, and waits.

"It can be what - what you want," Brendon says after a second, glancing up at him for just a second, cutting his eyes away quick.

"What do you want?" Spencer asks him quickly, genuinely interested in the answer.

"... _Spence_ ," Brendon manages after a second, and Spencer stills, _shocked_ at how wrecked Brendon's voice sounds.

He pulls back, and watches Brendon for a second, the way Brendon visibly curls in on himself just a little, and feels almost sick.

"Hey," he mutters, crowding back in, walking Brendon the few steps back it takes them to be pressed into the corner of one of the hedges. He slides his arms down, curling them _tight_ around Brendon, til Brendon takes a deep breath and sinks against him gratefully, arms sliding up around his shoulders. "It's okay."

"Yeah?" Brendon mutters, almost into his shoulder.

Spencer ducks down, til he can almost see Brendon's face, and loosens one arm, bringing his hand up to coax Brendon's chin up a little bit. He can't help it, he smiles a little, crooked, once Brendon actually _looks_ at him. "Yeah," Spencer assures him. Fuck it, seriously, he thinks, and he tilts his head down and covers Brendon's lips with his own again.

Brendon's shoulders go up for a second or two, but then he sighs and goes boneless, sinking into Spencer and making this one small, utterly _contented_ sound that sends sparks singing through Spencer's veins. It isn't rushed this time, or a battle of wills, and Spencer thinks _fuck yes_ to himself as he feels Brendon's mouth slide against his, wet and undemanding, just exploring for a second or two.

Spencer sighs softly and lets him feel things out, darting teasing licks against Brendon's lip every now and then just to throw him off, make him smile (and seriously, _feeling_ Brendon's smile? is as amazing as it sounds). _This_ is what he was after.

Spencer can't help the small groan that escapes him when Brendon finally gets tired of teasing and bites a little. "Yeah?" Brendon asks him, pleased, grinning against his mouth.

"Yeah, actually," Spencer mutters back, not very embarrassed at all.

"Good," Brendon breathes, almost faint enough for Spencer not to even catch it, but his cheeks burn and their lips touch again, twice in rapid succession, and Spencer opens his mouth to - fuck, he doesn't even know, say something or lick at Brendon's lips again, which is - of _course_ \- the minute the clock in the castle's tower starts to toll.

" _Seriously_?" Spencer asks the world, squeezing his eyes shut for a second and sighing as he pulls back a little. "It's midnight, isn't it," he says, not really a question so much as a statement.

"Um," Brendon mutters, and Spencer can feel him searching around in his pockets, finally producing a fob watch. "Yeah," Brendon says, sounding kind of surprised. "Why?"

Spencer opens his eyes, and gives Brendon a _look_. Brendon blinks, and takes a few seconds to remember what story they're in, and slumps unhappily. "Oh. Seriously?"

"Yeah," Spencer sighs, taking a step away from Brendon, letting him ease away from the hedges. "I've got to head back," he says, gesturing behind them, back the way he came through the maze.

Brendon nods. "Okay," he says, and falls into step beside Spencer, giving him another private, halfway shy smile before he reaches and grabs for Spencer's hand, squeezing it. Something inside him shivers happily and goes still, and Spencer can't help ducking his head and grinning a little too as they wander back through the maze.

The clock chimes stop long before they manage to get out, but Spencer figures that five minutes won't hurt Gabe's record too much. He and Brendon quietly move across the lawn, towards the front of the castle where all the carriages are, walking in companionable silence, their linked hands swinging.

"Remember to give me your shoe," Brendon tells him, glancing over.

"Okay," Spencer nods. He thinks about that for a second, though, and frowns. "...Actually, could we." He stops, unsure how to proceed, but finally just blurts out, "It fucking sucks at home, dude. Can you just. I can tell you how to get there, can you come tomorrow?" He can feel his cheeks getting hot again, and seriously, when is the whole middle school crush thing going to end?

"No, yeah, totally," Brendon says quickly, looking sort of concerned. "It sucks?"

"It's mom and Crystal and Jackie, but they're being the evil sisters and stepmom," Spencer explains shortly, not really wanting to think about it much. Brendon sucks in a sympathetic breath, and squeezes Spencer's hand again, bringing it up to press against his cheek.

"Yeah, tell me how to get there," he says. Spencer breathes a little easier, and ducks their heads together, whispering intently to him as they make their way back to the carriages.

 

Spencer still beats his family home, and he staggers into the house, hobbled by having only shoe. The trek up to the attic room seems to take forever, and he's starting to get really tired. He can sort of feel the beginnings of a headache from the wine starting to make itself known behind his eyes, but he can't stop _grinning_.

His mouth feels raw. Spencer brings his fingers up to it reflexively as he shoves open his bedroom door, and sucks in a breath as he relives Brendon dragging his fingers there.

Then he catches himself and feels sort of ridiculous, so he drags his hand down and drags himself inside, collapsing down onto the uneven mattress and groaning happily.

"That was _amazing_ , dude," Gabe says, popping up behind him, setting a big glass of water down on his rickety bedside table. Spencer groans again, less happily this time, but rolls over and squints up at Gabe's glow. "Seriously. I might get a promotion from that shit, you are a _champ_."

"Happy to help," Spencer mumbles, before he shuts his eyes and rolls back onto his stomach. "Sleep now." Then he actually _processes_ what Gabe said, and opens his eyes again. "Wait, you were _watching_ us?"

"Just checking in!" Gabe says, waving his hands to ward off Spencer's accusations. "Every now and then! You guys were sweet. And you looked _smokin'_ in that dress, dude, I have to say."

"Oh my god," Spencer groans, sinking into the mattress, pressing his head down harder into his pillow. "Gabe, go away."

"Sure, okay," Gabe says, still sounding ridiculously excited by Spencer's - and by proxy, _his_ \- great success. "Seriously, way to go."

"Fuck _off_ ," Spencer growls, turning his head enough to glare at where the room is still glowing.

"Drink your water," Gabe admonishes him, and Spencer feels himself being patted on the head kindly, and then the room is blissfully, blissfully silent and dark.

Spencer stretches happily, and sits up enough to drink half the glass of water, before he sinks back down onto his bed and curls up around his pillow, pressing his face into it and grinning as he tries and _utterly_ fails to stop from thinking about Brendon.

 

It's barely sunrise, when Spencer wakes up to someone banging frantically on his bedroom door. He sits up, and groans and immediately puts his head in his hands, feeling like he's barely holding the pieces of it together. Seriously, fuck some wine. He needs to _remember_ that wine is not his friend.

Eventually, he manages to yell "God, _shut up_ , I'm coming," over at the general area of the door, and he wraps a bedsheet around himself as he stumbles towards the door. "What," he grumps, as he opens it.

"SPENCER," Crystal shrieks, hopping from one foot to the other frantically. Spencer almost drops the bedsheet he's holding around himself like a cape, and whimpers as he presses the heel of his hand to his eyes.

"God, quiet," he pleads. "What?"

"Spencer _oh my god_ Prince Brendon is here, _Prince Brendon_ , and he says he wants to talk to every girl who lives here and he said I had to come and get you and _fuck_ , Spence, fuck, he's _even hotter in person_ , you _have_ to come see. Mom's about to _die_ , and Jackie's so fucking hungover, it's hilarious, you have to see her, she's trying to look all cute and seductive while she's _trying not to throw up_."

Spencer blinks at her, unseeing, before he manages to process the first five or so words of Crystal's babble. "You...Brendon is here?"

Crystal nods excitedly. "Seriously. _Unf_. I think he's wearing the same thing he had on at the ball, you should come and - "

"Yeah, give me like three seconds," he says abruptly, and closes the door on her. Spencer lets the sheet drop and looks down, and breathes his thanks to Gabe that he's back in his dad's shirt and trousers, not still in the dress. He runs to the mirror and - fuck, well, his eyes are still smoky but whatever. He takes a few precious seconds to try to smooth his hair down a little, but part of the reason it's so crazy is _Brendon_ , so he doesn't try overly hard to fix it.

And then he takes a couple of seconds to breathe, before he opens the door to Crystal glaring at him, her arms folded across her chest. "Okay," he says, fidgeting with his cuffs. "Let's go."

Crystal raises an eyebrow and glances down at his clothes, but shrugs and heads in front of him down the stairs. They don't talk anymore, not even when they both file into the sitting room. Crystal exchanges small smirks with Jackie, and both Mom and Jackie look sort of horrified at Spencer's lack of care in his appearance when hey, the _Prince_ is in their sitting room. At seven in the morning.

Spencer looks over, and can't help smiling so hard his face feels like it's going to shatter - Brendon's tired-looking, and sort of disheveled, and he _is_ still in his ball clothes, but he's beaming over at Spencer. "Hey," Brendon tells him.

"Hey," Spencer says back, reaching up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. "God, you couldn't wait til like. Ten in the morning?"

Brendon's smile softens around its edges a little. "Nope," he says firmly, still smiling, and Spencer thinks _oh_ , just before he moves across the room. Brendon seems to anticipate him - enough to stand, anyway, and reach for Spencer just as he's getting there, twining his arms around Spence's middle just as Spence's arms go around his shoulders and they both hold on, startled and bewildered and _so fucking happy_ that they can do this now. Brendon finds Spencer's jaw and brushes his lips across it lightly, and Spencer shivers and cards his fingers through Brendon's hair.

"What," Jackie says flatly.

"Holy _shit_ ," Crystal says, gleeful.

"Oh my," his mom says.

Brendon presses a kiss to the side of Spencer's neck, and hums there happily, and seriously he _saw_ what that did to Spencer last night, he has _no excuse_. Spencer shivers and pulls away, giving Brendon what he hopes is just an annoyed look, he doesn't need Brendon turning him on right now, but Brendon just beams at him some more, and then turns to his mom.

"Mrs. Smith, I'm sorry for visiting your house so early, but I - um," he falters, glancing over at Spencer and laughing lightly.

"I went to the ball last night and Brendon's taking me back with him," Spencer says helpfully, giving them all a placid smile. "So...see you around, I guess."

Beside him, Brendon's shoulders start shaking with laughter, and Brendon presses his mouth in Spencer's shoulder to muffle the sound, before he grabs Spencer's hand and tugs him toward the door.

"But," his mother says, feebly. "But."

"You weren't even _allowed_ to go!" Jackie wails. Spencer doesn't even turn around, just follows Brendon out the door and down the path, almost tripping over himself to get to the carriage in their drive.

"SPENCE," Crystal calls from the doorway, hanging out of it, still in her nightgown and curlers, "you better fucking invite me over! And throw a ball!"

Spencer snickers and hops into the carriage first, reaching a hand to help Brendon in, sliding it around him as the door snicks shut. Brendon ducks his head out of the window, though, and shouts "I PROMISE," to Crystal as they kick into motion, sending up swirls of dust as the horses drag them away.

Brendon doesn't stop giggling for a good three minutes, curling up close to Spencer and twining his arms around him like a vine. Spencer sighs and closes his eyes happily, still halfway asleep. "I can't believe you came at sunrise," he murmurs. "What sort of asshole wakes up before it's light outside?"

"The sort of asshole who maybe doesn't go to sleep at all the night before?" Brendon hints gently, giving Spence a wry smile when he cracks his eyes open and gives him a surprised look. "I...yeah, that." Brendon pauses, and his smile fades a little. "Spencer _Smith_ ," he sighs, "I have such a ginormous crush on you."

Spencer blinks, and sits up a little, enough to see him properly. "Seriously?" he says, completely confused. It's too early and he's still kind of hungover and Brendon has just admitted to having a crush on _him_. Spencer's stomach swoops crazily, and he has absolutely no idea what to do.

"Me too," he says, wincing and biting his lip and thinking _awesome, way to go_ , squeezing Brendon closer. "On you, I mean. ...You didn't _know_?"

" _You_ didn't know?" Brendon counters, pouting up at him. "I was so obvious, dude!"

" _What_ was so obvious, I didn't see anything so obvious!" Spencer says.

"I was _so obvious_ ," Brendon insists, shifting closer. He props his chin on Spencer's shoulder, and tilts his head a little as Spencer ducks in, pressing their lips together lightly. His licks his lips after, and then sits back, looking satisfied. "Dude, _years_ of being obvious. So. Obvious."

"That's not actually an argument, you're just saying the same thing over and over," Spencer says, half pretending to be irritated and half not really faking it, as he slumps in against Brendon and closes his eyes. "And it's too fucking early for this shit."

Brendon snorts and wraps his arms around Spencer's shoulders comfortably, holding him there. "Too fucking early for _my love_ ," he sighs sadly. "This isn't an awesome start, Smith the Fifth."

" _Most_ awesome start," Spencer argues, smiling a little at the old nickname. He reaches for his hand, bringing it up so he can kiss Brendon's palm and then turn his hand over and kiss the back of it too. "It's us arguing on the road, you can't get more quintessentially _us_ than that, dude."

 _Oh, quintessentially_ , Brendon mouths, pretending to look impressed, nodding slowly. Spencer grins and settles back against him, sprawling on the bench in the carriage. "So, what..." Spence starts, before he notices that the light outside the closed carriage blinds is getting way too bright, too fast.

Spencer's stomach drops and he quickly sits up, suddenly _really_ awake as he looks at Brendon and fuck, fuck, the edges of the carriage are already fading into white too.

"Spence, what - " Brendon starts, but Spencer has a momentary attack of flail and kisses him fiercely, licking into his mouth and staying there for a few seconds before pulling back. Brendon looks sort of stunned.

"This one's ending," he says quickly, reaching a hand up to cup Brendon's cheek. "New story. Look, I'll find you, okay? Everything's going to be all right, and this is okay. Don't worry," he says quickly, glancing around, his breathing growing shallower as he watches the blank white rise up their legs. "We're going to be good."

Brendon blinks, and tilts his head, giving Spencer a small, fond smile. "Yeah, I _know_ ," he says, as if it's a foregone conclusion, and he tilts forward enough to kiss Spencer again, sweet and promising. "Going to be _so_ good, Spence. See you in a little bit," Brendon says, his breath sliding against Spencer's lips, and then he's gone.

Spencer barely has time to take a breath, and then he's gone too.


	8. the eighth story

Spencer's already running when he comes back to himself. For a second he's full of nostalgia for the Pea episode that started everything off, but then he remembers the corset and the broken fingers and thinks _ahahaha, no_. He glances down and mentally fistpumps at the suit of armor he's wearing (hot and heavy, but still better than a dress). Then he thinks about Brendon, and gets - seriously - the _stupidest_ smile on his face, he sort of wants to punch himself, but _he can't stop_.

But. _Brendon_. Spencer knows that he's acting like a high school sophomore with his first requited crush thing happening, but he is _so_ smug about life. He and Brendon finally got a portion of their shit together, and all it took was their band falling apart and them having to rely solely on each other while going on tour and then trying to make a new album and then being unwittingly transported inside a magical book of fairy tales. Yeah, he's pretty proud of them.

Plus, Brendon tastes good. And the sounds he makes when he's kissing Spencer are, like, equal parts ridiculous and so fucking hot Spencer can barely _stand_ it, which is a pretty good metaphor for the existence of Brendon Urie, period.

Then he thinks about getting back home and seeing Bogart and doing all their laundry, and somewhere in the haze of homesickness and anticipation that follows, Spencer has a thought about Sarah that cuts through all of his daydreaming pretty fucking quickly. He pauses, stops jogging even, propping his hands up on his hips as he looks around at the village lanes and houses around him, and has a massive attack of guilt.

He _likes_ Sarah. She's a genuinely cool girl who makes Brendon happy, and now he's become the subject of a post-Panic Ryan Ross song, and none of these things really sit very well with him. Plus, Spencer realizes, a thread of anxiety beginning to stitch its way into his stomach, he doesn't really know Brendon's intentions regarding himself and the girlfriend back home. He could just be an "It's Complicated" status change to the facebook profile Brendon doesn't have.

Which - Spencer is all for people doing what they want to do, so long as they do it honestly, but he knows that a casual, open thing isn't really something he's up for. His whole unrequited _thing_ (that might actually have been requited for a while now? huh) for Brendon has left him with a lot of experience in being a fifth wheel and feeling vaguely alone in a crowd. He'd prefer going back to that, rather than trying to deal with the jealousy and competitive streak he _knows_ would crop up if he had to share Brendon.

Plus, he's invested a good chunk of time into developing a lot of creeper-like daydreams where he and Brendon are...not _boyfriends_ , so much as they're bandmates who live together and are kind of stupid about each other and fuck each other and no one else. He'd hate to have wasted all of that effort.

Spencer rubs a hand over his face and thinks _Oh, hey, beard!_ which lifts his mood infinitesimally. The village around him looks deserted, which is instantly alarming, and Spencer quickly turns around, checking out all sides to make sure there aren't any fucking demonic _wolves_ , or other things that look like they want to eat him.

He's clear. He can still see the entrance gate to the village, though, and the huge, heavy tangle of brambles that form a high wall (seriously, like ten stories of thorns and brambles, easy) around the perimeter of the city. Spencer gazes up at it for a little bit and frowns, worrying about where this whole story is going. He doesn't want to get caught up in any Silent Hill bullshit.

After walking around for about ten more minutes, Spencer registers that he's thirsty, and the chain mail and suit of armor he's wearing start to get fucking _heavy_. Spencer looks around til he sees a squat building with a tavern sign sporting turkey and bread and a pint glass on the front of it, and hurries toward it. He pushes the door open and glances around, and his shoulders sink even more. "Awesome," he mutters.

The tavern is fully stocked, which is good - at least he'll manage to get a drink - but everyone in the place is slumped on their seats, or sprawled across the bar counter, or propped on a stack of boxes. Everyone looks...well, just _asleep_. There isn't any blood anywhere. No blood is definitely a plus.

Spencer goes to poke the closest person, and he snorts and shifts, slumping over til his forehead hits the bar with a _clunk_. A few seconds later, the guy starts to snore.

So. Nobody is dead, everybody's just asleep.

The whole town is asleep.

The whole town that's surrounded by a 100-foot-high wall of thorns.

 _Fuck_.

Spencer flat-out _whimpers_ (it's not like anyone's going to hear him, anyway) and rakes his fingers through his hair, squeezing handfuls of it nervously. As he drags his hands down, they knock against the broad side of a fucking huge sword he's carrying on his back, and Spencer's breathing quickens a little. At least he's not unarmed.

His hands are shaking, kinda, so he goes over behind the counter and finds a semi-clean mug and wipes the half-inch of dust out of it. He thinks better of the huge barrels of beer (because he has no idea how long the contents have been there, and he doesn't feel like going blind. ...Again). He heads out of the tavern, out the back door, and finds a well.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Spencer clanks over to it and lowers the bucket down. When he pulls it back up, the water inside is clean and, when he dunks the mug in, miraculously _cold_. Spencer drains it, and two more, before he dumps a mugful over his head.

After he sets the mug down, Spence walks around the corner of the tavern, through the tiny alleyway between it and the next building, and looks around and _up_.

It only takes a minute of searching - there, maybe half a mile on the other side of the city, is a smallish castle with a very very _very_ tall tower. Spencer groans softly.

Right.

He thinks for a few minutes, and then presses his lips together into a tight, thin line, and starts shucking off the leg guards and footcovers and...basically anything that he's wearing that's metal and restricts his movement. When he's down to the chain mail and breastplate and vambraces, Spencer stops and goes to drink another mug of water (the temperature has to be pushing 90, it's fucking disgusting how sweaty he is already).

Once he can almost feel the water sloshing around in his stomach, Spencer leans against the well and stares in the direction of the tower, frowning. It's striking him as a little bit too easy, waltzing up to the castle and climbing up the tower.

Well, he's got his sword.

Spencer reaches for the mug one more time, just to get enough water to pour against the back of his neck, shivering as the water trickles down his back. He feels a little bit better for it, but still, the absolute silence of the village is making him think of Omega Man and 28 Days Later and neither of those things are doing much to make him less jumpy.

At least there aren't zombies in Sleeping Beauty. ...He's pretty sure there aren't zombies in Sleeping Beauty. Fuck, there _better_ not be zombies in Sleeping Beauty.

Spencer sighs and stands again. He can't really justify hiding behind a tavern in a comatose town anymore; plus, Brendon's stuck at the tip-top of that tower across the city, and he will be until Spencer gets his act together and manages to get there. So, there's some motivation.

After dawdling for a few more minutes, straightening his chain mail and breastplate and kinda really wishing he still had his phone so he could take some pictures of him looking like a ridiculous extra from Medieval Times, Spencer moves out of the back of the tavern, sidling out of the alley and keeping close to the buildings as he starts moving in the direction of the castle, and Brendon.

 

It's the weirdest fucking thing - Spencer's been hyper-vigilant about making sure to watch his back and all, but every now and then he gets the feeling something is _watching_ him.

He's still trotting through the town, passing by people who are passed out on top of carts, or slumped against pyramids of fruit. Even the _animals_ are affected - dogs are curled up, snoozing peacefully in doorways and underneath carriage wheels. He sees a cat sprawled on a windowsill, its tail twitching idly as it dreams. It's covered with a layer of dirt and dust.

The stalls in the marketplace are still pristine, though. Nothing is rotted or spoiled, all of the apples and cabbages and eggs look fresh and new. _Weird_.

After he passes through one group of stalls, Spencer has to stop and examine. It's too much for him to ignore.

He sidles up to a fruit merchant and watches the owner snore, slumped over his coin box. The stacks of oranges are inviting and remind him forcibly of Gabe, and Spencer's fingers itch with the urge until he just gives in a lifts one from the top of the stack, wriggling his short nails under the peel until it starts to give way.

There's a rustle somewhere behind him, and Spencer whirls around, glaring at the empty marketplace around him.

Seriously, this is getting fucking _old_. He goes back to attempting to peel the orange, and manages to get a good foothold, tearing away a piece of peel about as big as his pinky, before he smells...weird, it smells like sulfur.

Spencer bites his lip, and frowns down at the orange - is it evil? Are there evil oranges in Sleeping Beauty? Is it a fire and brimstone orange sent to destroy him? - before he notices that the air around him is getting a little hotter than it should. It's already hot outside, but fuck, all of a sudden he is _boiling_ , and everything around him kind of smells like the two days a year that Vegas teachers would actually have to turn on the baseboard heating in school, and - shit. _Shit_.

There's a flash of scaly red, and a sickening _swoop_ ing sound of wings beating the air, and Spencer barely manages to drop his orange and fucking _run for it_ before the stall and the street behind him explode.

There's a wave of heat and air, displaced by the force of...whatever it was, and then the _noise_. Spencer's thrown off his feet, knocked into a convenient cart full of turnips as he _feels_ the impact and the roar of destruction, in every part of him. As soon as his legs work again, Spencer scrambles out of the cart and flat-out _runs_ down the lane, hopping over the occasional buyer or seller as he hears more fires and blasts starting behind him.

Spencer barely manages to clear one building before the windows all shatter, bursting out into the street in a shimmery hail of glass. The air around him is starting to go thick with smoke and ash, and Spencer dodges down into an alley just as he feels a sharp burst of heat at his back.

He _runs_ , and runs and runs some more, twisting through alleyways and tripping over everything because he's got to keep one eye on the sky above the buildings, he's got to keep the tower in his sight.

It's still getting closer.

He makes a sharp turn right and almost gets roasted - a wall of fire blows down right in front of him, and Spencer falls back on his ass, actually _knocked backwards_ by the force of the heat. He still can't even fucking see what's causing this, which is the worst part of all, right behind _almost getting caught on fire_. Spencer rubs his face (good, he still has eyebrows) and hauls himself up and books it down the other way, _away_ from the wall of fire, deeper into the alleys and back ways until he begins to feel like a lab rat in a maze.

He's still looking up when he sees it - Spencer stops in the middle of an alley, completely dumbfounded, as he watches a fire-red, opalescent dragon circling just above the town. He watches as it dives down a few streets away, its scales and wings catching the sun, and lets a stream of fire from its mouth.

 _Fuck_ , this is - it's not even playing _fair_. Spencer shivers and watches it flap its huge wings a couple of times, pushing itself back up higher, making lazy figure eights in the sky as it drops its head and scans the streets for - _shit_.

Spencer ducks under an awning, but not fast enough. He hears the beat of the wings, the rush of air and the acrid smell of fire, and he sprints down the street just before he feels another blast of scorching heat behind him. Shit, it's _tracking Spencer_.

Fuck, _fuckfuckfuck_ , he can't fucking - it's a _motherfucking dragon_. Spencer has a sinking suspicion he's being _played_ with, like a cat plays with its food, and he considers just stopping and finding a way onto a roof and going out in a blaze of...well, probably just a _blaze_ , but shit, the tower is _so_ close now. And Brendon's waiting for him, and he can't just. He has to _try_.

Spencer keeps running, dodging carriages and sleeping horses and _fireballs_ as he gets into what must be the administrative portion of the city. There are less market stalls and more white columns and expensive-looking powdered wigs around him, and Spencer barely manages to duck behind a very ugly marble statue of three men on horses before the street around him explodes in fire. There's a hail of rubble and debris, and then the cloud of smoke and ash rolls past him, and then Spencer hears this terrifying hawklike _scream_ rip through the air above him. He ducks down instinctively, and peers through the smoke and ash until he sees red wings circling just above him.

The castle is, seriously, _straight ahead_. Spencer rubs the soot and ash out of his stinging eyes and blinks furiously, setting his jaw just before he scurries back to his feet and _sprints_ towards the castle gates, using the sleeping guard and stationary carriage as stepping-stones to vault over the high stone wall surrounding it.

Right into some more ten-foot-tall bramble bushes.

He _fucking hates brambles_.

Spencer _snarls_ and doesn't waste time - he grabs the sword on his back with both hands and yanks, until it comes out of the sheath and slices down through the air and all of the branches that are clinging to him. It's heavy as fuck and it's kind of unwieldy, but _fuck if he cares_ , Spencer is running on pure adrenalin and _rage_ , and he's perfectly happy to do some banzai pruning with his big fucking sword. He slices it in front of him like a very big, very pointy scythe, and watches with satisfaction as a whole lot of brambles tumble to the ground.

He makes quick work, forging through the thorns and slicing away at the branches until, after only a few minutes they start to clear away, circling to the far side of the castle before they weave halfway up the tower. It leaves just a fifty-yard dash between him and the main entrance of the castle.

Spencer's breath dies in his throat - there's the slow, ominous beat of wings flapping above him, and another shrill scream from the dragon, but seriously, what choice does he have? Spencer shudders and sheathes his sword, and waits til he sees the dragon circling _away_. Then he darts forward, running as fucking fast as his legs can possibly go, watching the doors get closer and closer.

And then there's a huge rush of air, and Spencer barely manages to stop in time before the dragon _drops_ to the ground in front of him, creating a minor shockwave and making him stagger and fall.

They regard each other for a couple of seconds, before the dragon rears back on its legs and screams again. Spencer can't help it, he claps his hands over his ears, feeling the pressure building in his head. It's so loud, _so loud_ , he can't _move_ it's so loud.

It only lasts a few seconds, but Spencer can barely shake it off after the dragon shuts its beak. He moves sort of sluggishly, trying to get the ringing out of his head and his ears, barely managing to keep his balance as he moves a little to the side. _Fuck_ , he's going to die, he's going to die, he's going to _fucking die_.

He staggers and lurches forward on an unseen branch, and Spencer topples to the ground in an ignominious heap just as the dragon breathes a hot plume of fire in his direction. Had he been standing, still, he'd have been burned to ash, so Spencer figures that he shouldn't be _too_ ashamed of himself for being sort of clumsy.

While the dragon is busy roasting the ground and the briar bushes behind him, Spencer scrambles forward, managing to crawl around the dragon and past it before it lets up. It looks around, obviously trying to search out his charred remains, and when it finally _finds_ him, getting to his feet on the _other_ side of it and the castle, it lets out another ungodly shriek. Spencer puts his fingers in his ears and keeps moving, not letting himself be stuck in position, until he's seriously _so close_ to the castle doors, he can see the bolts in the big huge hinges.

And then a big huge red wing comes out of nowhere and fucking _sweeps_ him up, knocking him a good fifteen feet into the air and forty feet off course. Spencer lands hard on his elbow, jarring every single part of him, it feels like, and he barely manages to roll over before the wing comes back down, smashing into the ground with so much force it makes a foot-deep divot in the earth.

He gets to his feet and reaches behind him, grabbing his sword and pulling it out in front of him. Which - seriously, what the hell is he doing? He's in a _band_. Spencer is perfectly aware that he has about as many genuinely useful life skills as a pot of noodles, and nowhere on that short list is the phrase "good with a sword." It's mostly just "good with lists" and "can smoke a lot of marijuana at a time."

Whatever. Spencer scowls fiercely as he faces off with the dragon, and tries to project an aura of badass. The dragon doesn't seem incredibly impressed, though, and Spencer barely manages to get out of the way before it belches out another jet of fire, setting the grass and the brambles alight.

Spencer _runs_ again, sprinting to get back to where he was. It's trying to keep him from the castle, he's realized; it must know that that's where he's headed. Spencer almost manages it this time, but he feels the shift of air just before another wing comes and knocks him out of the way again. He turns quickly, closes his eyes, and slices as hard and as fast as he can with his sword.

He can feel it hit something, tear into something that barely manages any resistance, and then he hears the dragon's roar. He opens his eyes and glances up and shouts triumphantly - there's this big fucking hole in the dragon's right wing. _He did that_.

It takes him all of three seconds to realize that what he's really just done is piss the dragon off - Spencer barely manages to avoid its quick lunge, and he can seriously see the saliva drip off its teeth as they nearly make contact with his shoulder. He yelps and starts toward the doors again, ducking another swipe of a wing. He actually manages to grab _hold_ of the knocker on the front, and he gives it a hard tug, managing to open the solid oak a few inches before a clawed foot swipes his legs out from under him.

Spencer hits the ground hard, and rolls onto his back. The sky above him is blue and edged with curling grey smoke, and Spencer barely manages to get a hand on his sword and swing _up_ when he sees teeth and blood-red eyes lunging for him.

Spencer closes his eyes and holds his breath, and feels a sharp shudder travel all through him as his sword hits _something_ , slicing through it hard and deep, grating against bone and cartilage and fuck knows what else before it all actually gives way.

It is, bar none, the fucking _grossest_ thing he has ever felt in his life.

The smell of sulfur and iron hits him then, and Spencer gags and opens his eyes a little, groaning as he sees the meat and gristle of the dragon's open neck about eight inches from his head. There's the white of exposed bone, and Spencer swallows down bile as he notices severed cords and veins, dripping lymph and blood sluggishly now, having spilt most of it on him and the doors in a huge splatter as soon as the sword hit.

While he's really glad the dragon was dumb enough to basically impale itself on his sword, did it have to do it _so close_ to him?

A drop of blood plops down on his cheek, still warm, and Spencer shudders and rolls over, shuffling awkwardly out from beneath the dragon carcass (which he killed! He totally just killed a dragon! He'd tell all his friends, but they'd assume he was high!) before he struggles to his feet and tugs at his sword. It makes a hideous squelching noise, and then a dry _shhhhink_ like nails on a chalkboard as it scrapes over bone, and then Spencer has his sword back.

He sheathes it, and pokes the dragon with his foot a couple of times, just to make sure. And then he takes a moment to breathe, and try to get the stink of dragon blood out of his nose. And then he goes back to opening the door. It seems a lot less exciting, now that there isn't a dragon trying to keep him from doing it.

Spencer slides in between the doors just as soon as he's opened them far enough to get through, and they quickly slam closed behind him, startling him a little. The air inside the castle is blessedly cool, and Spencer glances around at the dim light before he notices a large, open archway connecting the main foyer to the tower. He can see a spiral staircase beginning on the far wall, and Spencer runs for it, his legs sort of shaky as he comes to the steps and looks up.

It makes him sort of dizzy, how far up they go. And he's already pretty fucking tired, and just. Shitfuck, man, when he gets home, he isn't going to exercise for a _year_.

Spencer sighs, and thinks of Brendon and how Brendon is going to be so overwhelmed with appreciation that Spencer fucking killed a dragon and hauled his ass up eight million stairs to rescue him that he'll just. Dedicate the rest of his life to giving Spencer lots of orgasms. Yeah.

He grumbles a little about fucking _Stairmaster_ , and then he starts climbing.

 

It is precisely as boring and tiring as he figured it would be.

 

He gets about halfway up before he decides to give up smoking forever. Seriously, his _lungs_ , they were not meant to hurt in so many ways. And he's not _that_ out of shape, he's been doing the whole surfing thing, but god. His lungs and his shins and basically every part of him that needs to be moving is on fire.

Twenty feet later, Spencer passes a thin, long window and realizes the castle is on fire, too.

The _fucking dragon_ , he figures out half a minute later, after the immediate panic has set in and he's started sprinting up the stairs again, shin splints and burst lungs be damned. The dragon kept setting all the briar bushes on fire, and the tower is _covered_ in them, briars crawling up all the sides until Spencer had spent most of his time in town thinking the tower was actually painted green.

And now the briars are on fire, and apparently that fire is quickly spreading, because every time Spencer passes a window, he can see smoke and the bright lick of flames barely pushing up into sight. _Shit_.

Spencer keeps running, vaulting the stairs two and three at a time until he feels like he might pass out, but he's so close to the top. He can see how the stairs jut out from the wall at the very top, spiraling in tight and close until they just disappear into a trapdoor at the very top of the ceiling. On the other side of that door, he thinks to himself, to keep himself from stopping, is Brendon.

Spencer tries hard and eventually manages to swallow, and he glances out of the next window just long enough to gauge the flames, how they're maybe about ten feet away now, before he keeps on.

The tower seems to be ventilated enough to be keeping most of the smoke out of the windows, which is good, he thinks. Mostly, though, Spencer just runs, tripping over his feet in his attempt to get to the top before the fire does. He can smell them now - the burning leaves and branches, an oddly sweet, bitter smell that sets his teeth on edge.

And finally he's at the top, pushing with his shoulders against the trapdoor at the top of the staircase, shoving and cursing until he manages to coax it open a few inches. Then he sets his shoulders and twists, getting his legs underneath him and shoving up with all of his body, basically, until the door gives way and crashes open, swinging up and back with so much force that it bangs several inches off the floor when it hits.

Spencer crawls up onto the wooden floor of the tower room and gasps, choking on air for a few long minutes as he tries to keep his lungs from just collapsing in on him. Seriously, the room is spinning. He's never doing that again.

He lies there for a few minutes before he even tries to pull himself up, having to wait until the room isn't moving at all. When he finally does, he pushes up onto his knees and slumps over to the bed in the center of the room, laid out like a fucking shrine. And - yeah, as he suspected, there's Brendon on top of it, his eyes shut and a peaceful look on his face.

There's a chair next to Brendon. Spencer wonders who used to sit in it, before the castle and the rest of the town fell asleep, but he doesn't wonder for long - he drops down into it, resting his forehead against the soft mattress for a little bit, not really caring that he's getting the sheets underneath him completely soaked from his sweat.

Eventually, he stops panting. He manages to turn his head a little, til he can see Brendon's profile without lifting his head at all. Spencer understands that it's a testament to how dumb he is, but even though there are tendrils of smoke starting to wisp through the tower windows, and even though he's fucking exhausted and covered in dragon guts, he's still sort of thrilled at the opportunity to watch Brendon sleep.

Spencer breathes, and watches him for a bit, and he's so tired and brain-dead that he sort of forgets what he needs to be doing, for a while. He reaches up to shake Brendon's shoulder, to try and get him awake so they can see if they can make it down the stairs before the entire tower catches on the fire and the roof caves in, before he remembers - _oh, right, Sleeping Beauty_.

Spencer snorts and drags himself up into sitting, propping himself up on his elbows, hovering over Brendon. "Hi," he tells him, lucid enough not to look for an answer. Spencer reaches up to twist some of Brendon's hair through his fingers, watching as it sifts through slowly, sort of entranced.

And then - okay, yeah, he can hear the crackle and sizzle as the brambles catch fire around them, time to stop procrastinating - Spencer ducks down and presses his dry, bitten-raw lips gently to Brendon's. He sighs against his cheek, and then pulls away, and waits.

And...waits.

Spencer blinks.

 _What,_ he thinks to himself, darkly, before he frowns a little and presses his lips against Brendon's mouth again, less of a kiss and more of an emphatic statement, a punctuation to the whole episode. "... _What_ ," he says aloud, when Brendon still doesn't move afterwards.

There are flames licking in through half of the windows now, and Spencer can feel his cheeks going red, both from the heat and from frustration. "Fucking... _Brendon_ ," he snaps, reaching up to shake Brendon's shoulder again, thumping him lightly. "Brendon, come _on_."

Brendon's eyes stay closed, and Spencer _can't believe this_. He seriously can't fucking believe - " _Brendon_ ," he says, loudly, into his ear. "Hey. _Hey_. Look, I don't know if you _care_ , but the room is kind of on fire and I don't want to die, so if you could just fucking..." he tries to shift Brendon off of the bed, tug him up into his arms and just get him on the floor at least, but he can't get a good grip and anyway Brendon seems to suddenly weigh eight thousand pounds, so he just scrabbles his fingertips uselessly at Brendon's sides. " _Brendon_ ," he tries again, his voice starting to get shrill and panicky and fuck, fuck _fuck_ , what the hell? What the _fuck_?

" _What the fuck_?" Spencer shouts, his hands going shaky as he hears the roof start to creak above them. "Oh my _god_ , what the - " He tries again to pull at Brendon, who's still _sleeping_ , damn it, his eyes closed and his mouth solemn while the smoke is _pouring_ into the room now, fuck. Spencer whimpers and presses his mouth to Brendon's again, starting to freak the fuck out. "Pleasepleasepleaseplease," he whispers, " _please_ , Brendon, come on."

Smoke's starting to rise up through the floorboards now, too, and Spencer watches it with growing horror, crawling up out of the chair and onto the bed with Brendon, curling over him protectively. Fuckload of good that'll do, they're at least ten stories up, and when the floor goes...

Spencer shivers, and rests his forehead to Brendon's chest, hearing his heart beat faintly over the growing roar of the fire. He snarls out a wordless protest, his hands fisting in Brendon's shirt. " _God_ ," he finally manages, pressing his face into Brendon's shoulder, "damn it - _why_ , why isn't it, it should _fucking work_ ," he wails. "I kissed him, _come on_." God, all he can smell is smoke, now. "This isn't _fair_ ," he shouts, against Brendon's chest, mouthing the words against his shirt as he just holds on, "it's fucking - what do you want, it's love, it's true fucking - "

And then it hits him. _He's_ just the supporting character in this story, despite all the dragon slaying. It's still Brendon's story, and Brendon will wake up when - well.

Apparently, when someone other than Spencer gets there for him.

Spencer can't quite swallow the sob that wells up in his throat, it nearly chokes him. "Shit," he manages, keeping his forehead against Brendon's chest - he can feel it going up and down with each breath. "Oh, shit, Brendon," he says, his face crumpling up miserably, before he crawls up and presses his cheek to Brendon's. "I'm so sorry." And he _is_ , he fucking is, it's not just - wow, he really wishes he was anyone else right now. He _really_ wishes he was - well. Someone who could make it work.

He shudders hard, and presses his face into Brendon's shoulder for a few seconds before he can actually look up, look at Brendon's face for a few seconds. It's - kind of painful, but Spencer's heart _twists_ because oh fuck, he just. It's _Brendon_. He looks sweet and serious and about thirteen years old when he sleeps, and Spencer loves him. Stupid, heart-stopping, all-encompassing, true fucking love, right here on the bed below him. And it won't wake up.

He reaches out and presses his thumb gently against the swell of Brendon's bottom lip, and leans down to kiss there, barely brushing their mouths together. And then he stays there, breathing against Brendon's mouth for a second, closing his eyes because. Well. It would be really, really nice if this were the last thing he knew.

And then he feels fingers sliding over his back, and Spencer jerks and pulls back, and when he opens his eyes, Brendon is _looking right at him_. Spencer stares.

"Mmm, hey," Brendon says, giving him a sleepy little grin, stretching underneath him. Spencer gapes some more, his breath getting caught somewhere in his lungs, and he quickly reels through a diverse list of reactions, ranging from pouncing on Brendon's still half-asleep form to fist-pumping because TRUE FUCKING LOVE to wailing a little more because _they're about to fucking die_. "Hey, Spence."

"Hey," Spencer says stupidly, still staring at him. Brendon slides his hand up Spencer's back, and tilts up to kiss him again, fitting his mouth comfortably over Spence's for a few long, precious seconds, and fuck what Spencer thought before, he wants _this_ to be the last thing he knows.

"God, I was having this really weird dr..." Brendon trails off, and Spencer feels Bren's fingers claw into his back. "The roof is on fire." His voice is tense, weirdly calm. "Is...did you know the roof is on fire?"

"Um, yes?" Spencer says feebly, still sort of reeling. "And the floor."

"Oh." Brendon cranes to look over Spencer's shoulder, and sucks in a terrified breath. "Oh, um."

"There was a dragon," Spencer tells him, realizing belatedly that that's sort of less than helpful. "I killed it."

"But not before it set the roof and floor on fire," Brendon points out, crawling closer to Spencer, curling up as tight to him as he can get. Underneath them, the floor is starting to buckle, and just then a part of the roof comes crashing down, burning merrily.

"I fucking killed a dragon for you," Spencer says irritably, grabbing for Brendon and tugging him in a little more, tucking his left leg closer up on the mattress. "With a sword."

Brendon shivers and presses his face into Spencer's shoulder, huddling in as another piece of the roof falls in. "But not before it _set the roof on f_ \- ooh, hey, are you wearing chain mail?"

"Uh, yes?"

" _Hot_ ," Brendon says, sounding _way_ too impressed. He slides a hand up Spencer's side appreciatively.

"I was a lot sadder about us dying before you woke up," Spencer grumbles. His arms tighten around Brendon, though, as the floor shakes and sways, and he thinks probably he was wrong.

"We never got to have sex, you could be sad about that," Brendon breathes, reaching up to clutch at Spencer's shoulders as the floor, the whole _tower_ , it seems, groans and trembles. "I was really, really - _ohfuck_ ," he gasps, crawling into Spencer's _lap_ as the whole floor tilts down a few inches. There's a gap, they can see, and in between the slats of barely-holding-together board they can see...several stories of the spiral staircase. " _Shit_ , Spence."

"Don't look," Spencer tells him, tucking Brendon's head into his shoulder again, gathering him up close. "It's okay, just hold on, it'll be - "

"Fucking _liar_ ," Brendon snaps, reaching up to fist at Spencer's hair nervously, as the floor creaks and groans. "Oh, god."

"It's okay," Spencer says, shuddering and huddling down into Brendon now, shaking. "It's okay, it's not real, it's a fucking fairytale and we're about to wake up. And I'm going to do the laundry and you're going to take Bogart for a walk and _none of it's_ \- "

" _Shit_ ," Brendon says on a sob, as the floor pitches forward, knocking them a few inches closer to the hole that's just growing bigger and bigger. "Shit _shit_ , Spence, oh fuck."

"It's _not real_ ," Spencer insists, pressing his mouth to Brendon's ear, kissing it desperately. "We're going to wake up and be happy, you hear me?"

"...Yeah," Brendon says, shaking violently, even his _voice_ trembling. "Yeah, we'll go surfing," he manages. "And you'll make dinner because you keep insisting I can't cook - "

"You _can't_ cook," Spencer protests.

" - and we'll watch Law & Order until we fall asleep. Or have sex."

There's a huge crash, and the floor shakes and jolts - Spencer figures most of the roof just crashed to the floor, and he sucks in a painful-sounding breath. "Shit. ...Yeah, Law & Order and sex, and we'll - "

"Spencer," Brendon says, voice small and kind of - oh, fuck, Spencer can't handle it - _sad_. "Spence, I."

Spencer shudders and nods, turning his head, finding Brendon's jaw with his lips and following it up, until he's found Brendon's mouth and stays there, kissing him feverishly. Brendon sucks in a huge breath and kisses back just as fiercely, til Spencer's lips almost _hurt_ , but oh god Brendon tastes the same and he smells good (what little Spencer can smell, over the smoke) and he's warm and alive in Spencer's arms and Spencer can't help, he has to see, just a _little_. He opens his eyes just a crack, and chokes, pulling away.

"Oh, thank _fuck_ ," he gasps, watching joyfully as the fringes of the world edge into white. "Brendon."

"What?" Brendon manages, his eyes still squeezed shut tight, his face miserable. Spencer feels his gut wrench, and he can't help it, he has to kiss Brendon again.

"It's fading, it's going white," he says quickly, lips still against Brendon's mouth. "Open your eyes."

Brendon shakes his head, and Spencer frowns a little, holding him close as the floor that hasn't disappeared still lurches underneath them. "Seriously?" Brendon asks.

"Yeah. It's almost - yeah."

"Thank _God_ ," Brendon gasps, shuddering and butting his cheek against Spencer's. "Thankgodthankgodthank _god_ ," he breathes, mouth moving against Spencer's skin.

Spencer shivers, and feels his stomach drop as, underneath them, the last of the floor finally gives way. He feels Brendon's arms tighten on him, and he hears Brendon's quick gasp, and then he feels himself start to fall, just before everything, including him, is absorbed into white.


	9. the ninth story

The flash in his eyes dissipates slowly, more slowly than normal, and Spencer can feel intense regret settling in his stomach as he remembers the soft light of the morning they just left, and the way Brendon looked: content, peaceful in his arms. His stomach twists painfully, and Spencer blinks, squinting at the white til he realizes _oh_ , he can hear waves, and _oh_ , he's actually staring up at the bright noon sky.

He feels sort of stupid, and sits up, looking around him curiously at the long line of sandy beach stretching out on either side of him. Glances down quickly, and breathes a sigh of relief as he sees pants.

They're sopping wet, though, which is interesting. ...Actually, _all_ of him is sopping wet, dripping rivulets of water onto the beach, and Spencer has to push his limp hair out of his forehead and spit sand away from his lips. His mouth tastes like ocean water, and he feels like he's just surfed for _hours_ \- all the muscles in his back and arms are screaming.

He blinks, and twists a little, stretching the muscles whether they like it or not, and on his second revolution he sees - well, something in the shallows of the water, a ripple in the outline of the sand, waves crashing over it, foaming up brightly.

Spencer frowns and holds a hand over his squinting eyes, concentrating _hard_ on whatever it is, and then he _lights up_ inside, scrambling to his feet, his hands almost starting to shake with relief and joy. " _Bren_ ," he shouts into the wind, laughing a little as Brendon turns and stares at him. "Hey!"

Brendon beams and waves and stands up too - and they both realize Bden's naked at about the same time, which just makes Spencer laugh _harder_ , especially at the chagrin on Brendon's face. He trots over, feet sinking into the warm sand until it suddenly goes damp and kinda cold, and reaches to give Brendon a hand up. "Man, this is lucky, we don't even have to _look_ for each other in this one," he says conversationally, brushing a piece of seaweed off Brendon's shoulder, shrugging off his wet singlet so that at least Brendon has _something_ to wear. He helps Brendon pull it on over his head, and then squeezes his shoulder cheerfully. "Sorry it's wet."

Brendon gives him a small, private smile, ducking his head and looking up at him from underneath his eyelashes, eyes dark and pleased. _That's what she said_ he mouths.

And then he blinks, and clears his throat. Spencer frowns. "You okay?"

 _Yeah_ , Brendon replies, silent again. This time, he looks up nervously, reaching up to grab onto Spencer's arm. _Can you hear me?_

"No," Spencer says, his smile falling off his face, quickly replaced by mounting worry. "I mean, I can tell because I can see your lips, but - _shit_ , Brendon. Try something else."

Brendon's shoulders hunch up, and he goes through - something, his mouth moving too fast for Spencer to make out the words, but he suspects they're lyrics to one of their new songs. Spencer can't hear a thing, except for the sharp exhalation of Brendon's breath, the pop and slide of air uninterrupted by sound. Spencer's stomach plummets down somewhere near the sand as he watches Brendon get steadily more and more freaked out, with every word he's saying that he knows Spencer can't hear.

Finally Brendon looks up, terrified. _I can't hear myself either,_ he mouths, gesturing to his face. _Fuck._

Spencer nods, and - well, he can't _think_ of anything to do, nothing that would actually _help_ Brendon, so he just leans forward and tugs Brendon up into a tight hug, letting him shake and shudder for a while. "It's not permanent," he tells Brendon, first off. "It's only because of the story. As soon as we get through it, you'll have your voice back. Okay?" He waits for Brendon to nod, reaching a hand up to cup the back of his neck warmly. "You sure?" He pulls back to give Brendon a serious look. "Do you need a dinglehopper?"

Brendon rolls his eyes and punches Spencer's arm hard, knuckling in until Spencer winces as he laughs. "No, hey, come on!" Spencer snickers, holding him up tight against his struggles. "...Fucking fairy tales," he murmurs, close to Brendon's ear. "I can't believe we read these to kids, man, seriously."

He can tell by the different hitch to Brendon's shoulders that he's laughing a little, at least. Spencer sighs, and rubs his back, and stays with him for a few seconds more before pulling away and regarding him solemnly. "I should be happier," he says. "You not being able to talk is the sort of thing I used to pray for."

Brendon's expression is sort of hilarious - for the first couple of seconds, he looks absolutely _outraged_ , but then his face sort of morphs into amusement, and then, when that's not enough, Brendon starts waggling his eyebrows at Spencer suggestively, holding his hands out in front of him like he's asking for them to be bound together.

Spencer snorts, and grins, relieved that he's still able to make things suck marginally less for Brendon. "Maybe later," he purrs, smirking a little at the pink forming on Brendon's cheeks, the leer Brendon shoots his way. "Come on," Spencer says, sliding an arm around him, turning in the direction of the city built into the rocky seascape. "Let's go figure out where we are." They set off on their way.

They make it a whole two steps before Brendon's knees buckle.

He manages to shoot an arm around Spencer's neck before he falls completely, but he wrenches both of them forward, almost sending them into the sand. Spencer's hair falls into his face and he splutters and flails a little, trying to get free and push it back, and when he finally does, Brendon is slumped back onto the sand right beside him, looking bewildered and _hurt_. Spencer gazes down at him, completely confused.

 _Ow_ , Brendon mouths, looking up at him wide-eyed and scared. He gestures to his legs, and then looks back up at Spencer, dark eyes locking onto his. _They don't work._

Brendon's lack of bravado is, frankly, a little scary. Spencer stares down at him for a few more seconds, before he crouches down, knees hitting the sand, and rubs a hand gently over the long line of Brendon's calf. "Does this hurt?" Spencer asks him, watching him carefully. Brendon bites his lip, but shakes his head. "Does it hurt to stand?"

Brendon's mouth screws up, and he cocks his head to the side for a second, actually considering the question before he tilts his hand one way and the other. _Sort of_ , Spencer reads, and his jaw clenches as he nods.

"Okay." He takes a breath, and exhales it, regrouping as he looks down the white, deserted beach, the edge of it curling into the water several miles away. And then he looks up at the city not far away, the pier and entrance to the boardwalk not fifty feet from where they are right now. "Well, I guess you'll have to put up with another piggyback ride," he sighs, immediately trying to quash the smile that threatens to escape as Brendon throws up victory arms and squirms delightedly.

 

The piggyback ride into town is, ah...momentous. Spencer really hadn't been prepared to be received with such enthusiasm, but he hadn't taken into account the possibility that in this tale, he's this kingdom's prince, lost to the sea six months prior and presumed dead. The physical fact of him walking around the High Street, all _hey sup guys, here's your prince, back from the dead_ , almost causes a riot. He has to flee a mob of people and try to figure out just _why_ they're accosting him, and all with a terrified Brendon clinging to his back.

Eventually, one of the guards recognizes him and quickly ushers him to the castle, where Spencer almost punches a guard who tries to get Brendon to let go, and he hears about how his dad, the King (he looks the same as his real dad, anyway), issued a decree just after Spencer's disappearance that anyone who managed to find him would have the prince's hand in matrimony. For themselves, or for their unwed offspring, howsoever the case may be.

Brendon snorts, and buries his face in Spencer's neck when the guards tell them _that_ bit. Spencer rolls his eyes, and feels really weird about the whole thing. The prospect of family ties in the stories is making him skittish and paranoid, especially after Cinderella. He does better with dragons and wolves.

"Whatever, Dad always overreacted," he grumbles as the guards finally finish their debriefing. He groans, and waddles over to the nearest chair, sinking onto it despite Brendon's pinches and smacks, leaning heavily back against him. "The chairs are comfy," he tells Brendon sweetly, enjoying the murderous look Brendon is giving him from where he's pinned between the chair and Spence. Then there's a vicious poke between his ribs, and Spencer squawks and hops away, pressing his hand to the place Brendon just jabbed, glowering at him. "Uncool."

Brendon gives him a lazy smirk and flips him off, and sprawls on the chair. Spencer just watches him for a second - Brendon's eyes aren't as blank and scared anymore, and that's good. Also his legs are really long when he sits like that, Spencer never remembers until he sees it.

He pulls his eyes back up, away from the sprawl of Brendon's legs, and feels his own cheeks heating up as he figures out Brendon's totally caught him looking. _Busted_ , Brendon mouths, one corner of his lips curling up into a satisfied smirk as he tilts his head back and stretches. His eyes never leave Spencer, though, and Spencer can feel his heartbeat pick up a little, at the way Brendon arches in the chair, the smooth cords in his neck and arms suddenly put on display.

For _him_ Spencer realizes, the idea falling on him like a cartoon anvil, unexpected and sort of baffling. On display for _him_.

He moves the three paces it takes to get back over to the chair, and looms over Brendon, his hands coming down to support him on the armrests. "Who are you showing off for?" he murmurs fondly, hunching down so that his forehead is almost touching Brendon's. His hair is falling around them, brushing over Brendon's cheeks, his own nose.

Brendon blows a piece of Spencer's hair away from his cheek, and just grins up at him, fidgeting happily. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and even though Spencer _knows_ that's an actual nervous habit, that Brendon does it a lot, something still breaks inside him. He's leaning down and pressing their mouths together before he's really conscious of even moving.

It's weird and wonderful, Spencer thinks, kissing Brendon. He can't really fathom a day that he'll actually be _used_ to it. Brendon's mouth, Brendon's lips are the closest to home he's felt in weeks.

Under him, Brendon shivers, and there's the soft-slick sound of their mouths moving together before Brendon sucks in a sharp breath and exhales it, reaching up with both hands to grab at Spencer's shoulders and tug him down. Spencer goes - Brendon's hands are warm on his skin, and he folds easily, sinking to his knees. He slides up to the edge of the chair, between Brendon's thighs, cradled by them as he cranes up, tilting his chin so that Brendon can swoop down and kiss him, cup his jaw and kiss him so _hard_ that their teeth clack together.

He can feel Brendon's smile. Spencer's heart thumps sort of arrhythmically at that, and at the way he can tell Brendon's pressing words against his lips, licking them into the corners of his mouth. Brendon's hands are warm and insistent on his sides, and Brendon's legs are clamped tight around him, and -

There's a loud _ahem_ behind them, and Spencer jolts, startled into pulling away and scowling over his shoulder at whoever wouldd commit such a heinous party foul as -

"Oh." Spencer can feel all the blood draining away from his face, and his stomach plummets to his knees. "Hi, Dad."

 

It's amazing, how fast Brendon can book it out of a room when he has incentive. Not even Spencer's best pleading face makes a difference, and Spencer watches helplessly as he wobbles out of the room, holding onto the wall.

Spencer's not really sure how it happens, but it's less than fifteen seconds before he finds himself sitting in the chair, being loomed over by his father, who has on a face that means, in every reality, _We're Going To Have A Talk_.

Spencer doesn't know how many times and in how many variations he can say "I don't remember," but he's pretty sure he goes through them all during the conversation that follows.

No, he doesn't remember what happened at sea. No, he doesn't remember what happened to the crew of the ship he was on. No, he doesn't remember what happened to the _ship_. He doesn't remember where he was, or who was with him (or, well, he _does_ , but the truth would be supremely unhelpful in this situation, he's guessing).

All he remembers is waking up washed on a beach, soaking wet, with Brendon naked and soaking wet and washed up on the same beach, just thirty feet away.

"So we don't know if she saved you or kidnapped you," his father says slowly, dubiously. Spencer huffs and kicks the nearest end table.

"Yeah, Brendon looks really threatening," he drawls. "Totally capable of kidnapping me."

"I'm only saying," his dad says mildly, steepling his fingers in front of his face, gazing at them contemplatively, "that we don't know all the details. Nor are we likely to, given your inability to remember what actually happened."

"Look, I just...I _know_ Brendon saved me," Spencer says helplessly, flailing his hands, wishing he were better at coming up with plausible-sounding lies; he knows that if he tried, he'd wind up just adapting the plot of _Pirates of the Caribbean_ to suit him. Ryan, he needs _Ryan_ here. "Maybe the memories will come back? I hear they do that sometimes."

His father shrugs, noncommittal, but looks interested at the idea. "They do?"

Spencer's shoulders sag with relief. "Yeah, sometimes. Yeah. ...Maybe if Brendon stayed here, h...she could help me remember."

His father gives him a beady look, but doesn't remark on Spencer's unsubtle ploy. "I'll have the doctors come and give the both of you a look. Has she always been mute?"

"No," Spencer says quickly, firmly. "I remember her voice. When we woke up on the beach, it was just gone."

"Hmm." His father gives him another speculative look, but only nods. For a minute, the two of them just stare at each other. Then his father comes over and gives him a light pat on the back. "I'm glad you're returned, son," he murmurs, and then he sweeps out of the room, leaving Spencer rattled and kind of cold.

... _His_ dad would've at least given him a _hug_ , what the fuck.

Spencer shivers and folds his arms tightly across his bare chest, and ducks his head forward, staring blankly at the wall ahead for half a minute before he snaps out of it and heads toward the door as well. Somewhere in the castle, Brendon's all by himself and unable to talk and probably hurting from having to walk so much, and Spencer needs to be there for him more than he needs anything else.

 

Spencer finds him only two rooms over, slumped exhaustedly on a sofa and dozing, pain written on every part of his face. He's sort of loath to wake Brendon up, but then a servant passes through the room and Spencer manages to convince her to show them to his old quarters, without sounding too much like a complete fucking idiot, and he's poking Brendon and hauling him up onto his back before Brendon's really woken up.

They hole up in Spencer's rooms for the rest of the day, ignoring the arrival of more and more notes of congratulations and joy from various court families. Finally, when the stream of them gets annoyingly steady, Spencer just tells the servants to leave all correspondence outside his door and locks them out, curling up with Brendon on the huge four-poster bed.

His rooms are closest to the ocean, and open to a huge balcony overlooking the water and the waves. They can hear the soft, rhythmic whooshes and crash of the waves breaking, and from the bed, they watch the sun slowly sink into the water, turning the horizon red and orange and pink.

"We'll get it figured out," Spencer murmurs into Brendon's shoulder, as the last slip of sun vanishes into the sea. Brendon sighs and leans back into him a little more, reaching down to grab his hand and squeeze it.

Both of them are still, and Brendon's still wearing the salt-scratchy long shirt Spencer washed ashore in, because they are fucking exhausted and also lazy as shit, even at the best of times. Spencer knows Brendon would rather just...put up with the uncomfortable original than face having to _move_ to find new, clean clothes of his own.

That could also be informed by the fact that he can't fucking _walk_. Spencer winces, and slides away from him, scooting off the bed and making his way around the room, trying to figure out where his clothes would be hiding.

He does find a lit candle in one of the adjacent rooms, so he goes around lighting all the candles in the bedroom so they can at least _see_ in the encroaching dark. He glances up in the middle of lighting a cluster near the window, to see Brendon gazing at him curiously, tracking his movements. "It's getting dark," he explains needlessly, gesturing towards the open balcony doors. "Plus, I need light to find clothes for us."

Brendon props up on his elbows and gives Spencer a wry, crooked grin, glancing down at the crusty shirt he's still wearing.

"Yeah, _gross_ ," Spencer agrees, making a face as he starts systematically opening and closing all the doors in the room - one of them is bound to open up to - _aha_.

"Clothes!" he shouts, shoving the door all the way open so Brendon can see, pumping his fist in victory. Brendon rolls his eyes and slow-claps from the bed, but whatever, fuck _him_ , Spencer is totally a genius for finding his own closet. He dives in, taking the little candle-lighty stick inside so he can see, and prods through the rows of fabric until he grabs a couple of pairs of pants and two soft-looking shirts that seem like they'll fit both him and Brendon.

He resurfaces with the clothes and tosses them at the bed, blowing out the candle-lighting stick and setting it on the side table as he watches Brendon scramble to look at the clothes, pick over them until he settles on the darker of the two pairs of pants, and an ancient, paper-thin white shirt. Spencer grabs the other shirt and starts tugging it on over his head, tired of being half-dressed. He's halfway through tugging off his pants to put the other ones on when he realizes Brendon isn't getting dressed at all, he's just _watching_.

Cheeks burning hot, Spencer finishes tugging the pants on before he gives Brendon a level stare. Brendon waggles his eyebrows, breaking into a small smile for him, and then just tugs the old singlet off over his head, throwing it onto the floor beside the bed. He sinks back into the mattress, sprawling luxuriously.

 _Oh_ , Spencer thinks, and he knows he's going a bright red as he watches Brendon stretch out, miles of bare skin in white sheets. "Yeah, or that," he says, his voice only a _little_ strangled.

Peeking up from his pillow, Brendon raises his eyebrows and reaches an arm out for Spencer, making tired grabby hands until Spence takes the hint and slides back onto the mattress, kneeing over til he's in the middle of the bed again.

Brendon's warm and pliant, a sweet sprawl of limbs as Spencer fidgets and kicks his way back under the sheets. He waits, patiently, til Spencer's settled before curling up into him again, and Spencer's sort of startled at how easily they've managed to figure out ways to slot together - Brendon's head on his chest, an arm thrown possessively around his waist, Spencer's hand curled up into Brendon's hair.

Brendon snuffles, and curls around him a little tighter, til Spencer frowns and reaches down to pull the sheets up higher, almost up to their shoulders. "Okay?" he murmurs, turning to press his cheek to Brendon's hair. Brendon nods, and sinks down against him comfortably. "You going to sleep?"

Brendon nods again, and Spencer rubs his back gently. "Tomorrow," he murmurs, "we're going to get up early, and find a shower or a bath or something, and wear _clothes_ , and we're going to figure out how to fix this."

Brendon sighs, and pats Spencer's shoulder, but otherwise doesn't respond. Within five minutes he's asleep, breathing deep and even in a way that makes Spencer stupidly grateful.

He watches Brendon sleep, the slow rise and fall of his chest, warm in the glow of the flickering candles. And then Spencer gazes around the room, at the stubs of candles that are all in various stages of guttering out, at the pale light of the moon hitting the waves outside, and he closes his eyes and listens to the juxtaposition of Brendon's breathing to the crash of the waves, and thinks that when they get back home, that would make the backbone of a really great song.

And then he's asleep.

 

Brendon scowls fiercely for the first fifteen minutes after Spencer wakes him up the next morning, but whatever, Spencer's been up for like _three hours_ , meeting with his dad's people and finding out what the rumors on the street are about him and his "mystery girl."

Plus, he has an awesome surprise. He bullies Brendon into getting out of bed and then waits for him to climb onto his back, and then Spencer takes off into the hallway, taking a right and then a left and then a right again, until he tugs open a door to reveal a huge bathroom, with a tub the size of a jacuzzi in the middle.

"I'm awesome," Spencer reminds Brendon, craning to catch his expression. Brendon's eyes look like they're about to pop out of his head, and he's already squirming, trying to get Spencer to let him down. "Okay, okay, jesus," Spencer laughs, closing the distance between the door and the tub, and - good, the servants got his message about filling up the water tank. Steam curls up off of the water inside the tub, and Spencer twists and leans down, so Brendon can sit on the ledge.

Brendon shucks off the old shirt he'd tugged on just in time before Spencer pulled him out of the bedroom, and sinks down into the water, rapture written on his face as he moves toward the center of the tub. He stretches, and ducks his head under, coming up a second later with a splash and wiping his face, eagerly blinking his eyes open at Spencer, who's - he can't help the way he's grinning, Brendon looks _so fucking happy_.

Brendon blinks, and grins back, and then he tilts his head and glances down at his body in the water, looking sort of curious. And then he looks back up, almost serious again. _They don't hurt_ , he mouths, gesturing down to his legs.

Spencer's smile lessens too, as he looks down. "Did they earlier?"

Brendon bites his lip and nods.

"Huh." Spencer frowns, and then he reaches to push a piece of hair out of Brendon's eyes. "Well, I guess we should probably spend a lot of time at the beach," he muses, trying and failing not to smile a little at the way Brendon lights up at that.

Spencer glances away, his gaze conveniently falling to the shelf of bottled soaps and shampoos, all in intricate little glass containers. He reaches for a couple and unstoppers them, handing them over to Brendon. "Hurry the fuck up, Urie," he says, only watching out of the corner of his eye as Brendon pours soap out into his hand and starts lathering up his hair. "We've got things to do."

 

Which is, of course, a total lie. Spencer's already secured one of the carriages to cart them around all day so that Brendon doesn't have to walk, but as far as actual _plans_ go...he's lost. He thinks, at first, about exploring the village, until he takes into account how he'll have to give Brendon piggyback rides everywhere or get a couple of guards to carry him, and Spencer can _just see_ Brendon being down for that. Unless he's being obviously pampered and spoiled like a Pekingese, Brendon really isn't cool with having people do other shit for him that he should be able to do for himself.

"What you need is a Segway," Spencer sighs, squawking when Brendon frog-punches him on the thigh. "What? I'm just saying! That would be a sort of helpful invention to have right now."

Brendon scowls, and Spencer subsides, slouching back onto the carriage seat, trying not to wince as it rattles around on the cobblestone streets of town. "Apparently there's some orchestra performing tomorrow night," Spencer tries again, a minute later. "Dad's, um...fuck, Dad's _Cabinet_ were talking about it when I saw them this morning. Want to go?"

Spencer gets the impression that Brendon's looking interested _despite_ himself, so he makes a mental note to ask for tickets. Underneath them, the road abruptly turns from cobblestones to wooden slats as they near the beach, and Brendon winces, turns to rub his face against the material of Spencer's shirt.

"Hurt?" Spencer murmurs softly, pressing his lips together when Brendon tenses and nods. He thinks for a minute, then decides _fuck it_ and hauls Brendon's legs up into his lap, moving them as gently as possible, rubbing the outside of one shin lightly as they make their way down to the King's private dock. "Any better?"

Brendon nods again, and gives Spencer an absurdly grateful look, big-eyed and serious. He sighs as the carriage finally lurches to a halt, and Spencer carefully moves out from under him, hopping out of the carriage and then turning so that Brendon can hop onto his back. There's a few seconds of nothing happening, and Spencer turns to give Brendon a confused look. "What?"

Brendon's gone all thin-lipped and guilty-looking, not reaching Spencer's eyes with his own as he picks at his thumbnail in the doorway of the carriage.

"Bren?" Spence asks gently, suddenly worried. But Brendon just shakes his head, like he's trying to shake things out of it, and he gestures for Spencer to turn back around, and Spencer barely has time to before there's the familiar jarring of Brendon hopping onto his back. He hooks his arms under Brendon's legs securely, and makes sure Brendon's holding on, and then starts down the wooden dock, squinting into the late-morning sun until he reaches the very tip, jutting out deep into the sea.

They both gaze down at the water as they walk past it - it's shockingly clear, even as they get further out, away from the shallows. Clear, and a pale blue-green that's unique solely to this spot, Spencer thinks. He thinks he can see little schools of fish flitting around in the water, and a couple of times Brendon points out a shadowy blob that could be a jellyfish, but the rest of the time it's just clear, and deep, and blue.

They reach the end of the dock and Spencer carefully lowers Brendon down, angling them so that Brendon can sit and scoot just a couple of feet over to the edge of the dock, let his legs dangle over the side.

"You know what I learned this morning?" Spencer asks, conversational, as he comes to sit beside Brendon, dangling his legs over the side too. "The waters in the Cay here barely have tides at all. They barely _move_ , because three generations ago, one of my ancestors signed a treaty with the Mermish King that said he would keep their waters calm, so long as the humans didn't over-fish the local waters, or try to discover where their kingdom was."

Brendon's eyebrows shoot up, and he nods a little, glancing over at Spencer, who's _obviously_ waiting for more of a response than that. Come on. There's a pause, and then Brendon starts stroking his nonexistent beard, giving Spencer a conspiratorial look. _Excellent_ , he mouths.

Spencer rolls his eyes, nudges Brendon's shoulder with his own. "Dick," he grumbles. "Anyway, that's why the dock's still so shallow so far out," he says, gesturing to the way their legs are submerged in a foot of water as they hang off the docks, even though they're a good quarter-mile out into the sea.

Brendon gives him a thumbs-up, looking down at their legs, the sunlight dappling over the water cheerfully.

"So...y'know, if you find yourself in need of a snarfblatt or anything, let me know," Spencer adds a moment later, laughing and cringing away as Brendon punches him in the thigh again, three times in quick succession. He looks up, and at least Brendon is _smiling_ a little now.

Brendon rolls his eyes, and flips Spencer off, still grinning as he shoves at Spencer's side and shoulder, poking him in his ribs, generally trying to be as annoying as possible. Spencer grins and makes a grab for his hands, trying to pin them down. "I'm just wondering where you're stowing Flounder and Sebastian," Spencer teases, slapping away Brendon's hand when it gets too close to his thigh, "and when we're going to have to fight an eight-armed drag queen."

Brendon's hands freeze, and after a few seconds they drop back to his lap, and Spencer looks up in surprise. Brendon's grin is slowly dissolving, right in front of him. Brendon starts to chew at the corner of his lip, his gaze darting back out to sea and staying there, turning worried. "Bren?" Spencer asks, because _what the hell_?

Brendon doesn't respond at all, just keeps looking out at the waters, obviously working something out in his head. Spencer waits, nervous and a little fidgety as he watches, until finally Brendon turns back and gives him a vaguely apologetic smile.

His eyes are still worried, though. Spencer smiles back a little, but isn't fooled. Nor is he fooled when, for the rest of their day on the dock, Brendon is a little more contained, a little less of a spaz than he normally is.

He doesn't know what Brendon's hiding, or why he's still worried, but if Brendon is then he probably should be too.

 

 

After they get back to the castle and Spencer dumps Brendon off of his back and onto the mattress of the bed, they both realize there's a dress laid out pointedly just a foot and a half from where Brendon landed. Spencer rolls his eyes, but when he turns to check Brendon's response, he's actually _startled_ by the amount of naked misery on Bren's face. "Hey," Spencer says, reaching for him, laying a hand lightly on his forearm. "Fuck that shit," he says, determined. "As far as they know, you're from another country, where the women wear pants and do whatever they want. People can fucking deal."

Brendon exhales slowly and nods, giving Spencer a grateful smile as he slides up higher on the bed, crossing his legs with a wince and reaching down to rub at his own ankles. Spencer watches him for a moment, the press of Brendon's fingers into his own skin, and then Spence slides off the edge of the mattress and bustles around the room, closing the sheer curtain against the harsh afternoon sunlight and then heading to the closet, rummaging around for something for them both to wear the next morning. He throws a few things onto the end of the mattress and then comes over and snatches up the dress, balling it up and tossing it into a corner of the room.

Brendon just watches him, eyes wide and curious, eyebrows disappearing up into his hair. He bites his lip and then gives Spencer a small smile, shifting back onto his elbows, only halfway propped up as he watches Spence dick around, arranging their clothing just so.

Spencer knows he's being ridiculous, but sometimes he gets kind of shy of the way Brendon looks at him. Like now, he's feeling especially ridiculous _now_ , with Brendon sprawled on the mattress and watching him be incredibly obsessive-compulsive about their clothes. Spencer sighs and, after a few seconds, manages to make himself pull away and turn around and - yeah, Brendon's still looking.

He smiles a little, almost to himself - it's not like Brendon's being particularly obvious about it or anything, but there's something warm and _interested_ in his eyes now, every time he looks over, and it's kind of a lot to just be able to accept as normal.

Spencer's not quite there - he has to pull himself away from the clothes and crawl onto the bed, not even _thinking_ about it as he slides forward on all fours until he's surrounding Brendon, hovering over him. "Hey," he says, pleased at the way Brendon blinks up at him, still sort of awed.

He feels fingertips venturing over his ribs lightly, and Spencer ducks down, pressing a soft, undemanding kiss to Brendon's mouth. Brendon seems content with that, so Spencer sinks down beside him, helping him to curl up against him, lose himself in the long, slow kisses that Brendon seems to like the most.

After a while, Spencer feels Brendon's head getting heavier and heavier on his arm, and it's hard to keep from snickering or anything when Brendon starts to get...really sloppy, with the making out. In any other circumstance, Spencer would be teasing him mercilessly, but when he opens his eyes, Brendon just looks fucking _blissed out_ , and more than halfway asleep.

So instead, Spencer just feels really smug, and presses lazy kisses to Brendon's jaw until he shivers and falls asleep.

 

They stay in bed until noon the next day, and then they go back to the dock. Spencer watches Brendon watching his own feet in the water, swishing them back and forth a little, making tiny waves, for nearly half an hour before he feels compelled to lean over and kiss his cheek.

The delighted smile Brendon gives him makes something in Spencer's chest ease, go a little bit looser, and he sits back, resting his weight on his hands. Eventually, Brendon leans over and rests his head against Spencer's shoulder, and Spencer closes his eyes, letting his cheek rest against Brendon's hair. _Please, please please_ , he thinks - projecting the message out to Anyone who might be listening.

He doesn't really know if he means _please fix him_ or _please let us have this_ or _please let us go home_ , or all of the above.

 

 

They arrive at the theater in style.

Spencer hates it, and he knows Brendon hates it too - the carriage jounces them through the main thoroughfare, despite Spencer's instructions to the driver to just take the most direct route. Brendon's curled up on him, and ghost-white, and sweating a little, and Spencer has the irrational urge to punch everything.

But no - instead, he has to smile sickly for the court families milling around their carriage as it arrives. He's - _fuck_ , he's grateful for the three guys who hop off the carriage and start herding the royalty groupies away, but there are still a distressing number of guys who filter through, whose names are apparently known enough that even Brendon's wary looks and Spencer's outright _glares_ aren't enough to keep them away.

"Spencer! Absolutely shocking about your disappearance, truly terrible, can't believe your father stood for it," one of them is saying to Spencer, voice nasal and grating and _unceasing_. "They say you can't remember - ? Oh, well, nevermind. Probably best not to. Quite boring, I imagine. Conversations with codfish, et cetera. However, you'd think with our treaty with - oh, _hello_." And - yeah, Spencer whips his head around, he _knows_ that tone of voice.

Sure enough, the rabbity-looking asshole who'd been holding the one-sided conversation has turned his attention to Brendon, and is leering cheerfully. Acting on instinct, Spencer takes a step in front of Bren, but not quickly enough - the man sticks a hand out, apparently for Brendon to shake. "I thought the rumors were exaggerations, and here I find they don't do your young lady any sort of justice."

Spencer turns to boggle at Brendon, who's too busy trying (and failing) to hide his smirk as he sticks his hand out to shake the guy's. He's obviously _not_ expecting the man to bring his hand up for a kiss ( _gross_ , Spencer thinks irritably, _who still does that? Who EVER did that?_ ), but is more charitable than Spencer would be, giving the guy a hilariously coy smile and tugging his hand away when it looks like he might not get it back.

"Is she wearing _trousers_?" one of the other courtiers asks, astonished. "Well, that's...exotic."

" _Legs_ ," another one murmurs reverently, distressingly close to Spencer's ear. "Look at her legs."

" _Right_ , so, yeah," Spencer cuts in hastily, grabbing for Brendon's hand and tugging him close in behind before someone else can make a grab for some other part of his body. "Guess we'll just be going _inside_ now."

He has the distinct impression Brendon's _laughing_ at him as he pulls Brendon towards the private side entrance, bundling him inside the doors and giving the guards a hunted look. One of the guards catches on, and bars the rest of the men from following them, barking out orders for them to use the main entrance with the rest of the concertgoers. Spencer smirks at their disappointed cries, and breathes a little bit easier when they're in their seats, hidden behind curtains.

Brendon's still snickering softly, which makes Spencer scowl even more because seriously? _Seriously_? In _his_ kingdom? He's outraged on behalf of his citizens.

"There's bound to be a dungeon I can put them in," Spencer mutters, making Brendon's shoulders shake with fresh laughter. "Well, god!"

 

***

 

Brendon wakes to a kiss, and in his head, he can hear perfectly the noise he wants to make at that. Of course, he _can't_ , so instead he opens his eyes, smiles blearily up at Spencer, and gives him a tired waggle of fingers.

Spencer looks sort of...serious, which is worrying. Brendon struggles to blink his eyes all the way open. "Dad's sent for me," Spencer says, leaning down on one elbow, hovering over him. "I'm supposed to go and meet with him in a few minutes, this'll be fucking fun." Brendon wants to tsk and tell him to stop being such an _optimist, god_ , but he settles for rubbing Spencer's arm and craning up to kiss him again, lightly.

It works. Spencer smiles a little. Brendon beams back, and stretches - his legs don't hurt too much at the moment, which is good. When he slumps back down, Spencer is watching him, eyes hot and interested and a lot of other things that make Brendon's skin itch with want, but Spencer just says "Go brush your teeth," and grins when Brendon throws a pillow at him, and then skips out of the room.

After a few minutes of wallowing in the bedsheets (they smell like the beach, and like _Spencer_. It's possible Brendon is being a little pathetic), he sits up and scoots over to the edge of the bed, wincing as he puts his feet down on the floor.

It's like walking on glass - every single step has him gasping, clutching for something to hold onto, because it feels like every minute shift of weight, every muscle that moves in his legs, just finds a way to drive the pain deeper into him.

He manages to get to the dresser and sit, and he manages to get his clothes on. He even manages to make it just outside the bedroom door before he has to slump down to the floor, everything below his knees absolutely on fire until he can't breathe for it.

"Brendon?" comes a voice, floating above him. Brendon swallows down the nausea in his throat, and glances up, managing a sickly smile for Spencer's guard, the one who stays closest, and has night shift outside the bedroom, the only one who doesn't look away when Brendon looks at them.

He waves a little. The guard waves back. Brendon feels a little bit like crying for joy - other than Spencer, this guy is the only one who's actually talked to him.

The guy - who reminds him really forcefully of Zack - crouches down and gives Brendon a concerned once-over. "Are you okay?"

Brendon rolls his eyes, makes a big gesture with his hands that seems to communicate _As okay as possible_ pretty well, because the guards smiles and straightens up. "Sp - ah, His Highness told me to watch out for you til he gets back, so. What were your plans for today?"

Brendon gazes up at him, eyebrows raising at the prospect of actually having _plans_. He doesn't want to do anything, really, but he'll be _damned_ if he's going to stay indoors, in this fucking castle, so. He points at the nearest open window, gesturing emphatically as the guard turns and looks. "Outside?"

Brendon nods. And then he frowns (he always fucking hated Charades, what the fuck) and holds up his index finger for a second, to get the guard's attention back and to figure out how best to communicate his real goal. Finally, he settles on using his right hand to undulate up and down like waves, and using his left hand as sort of a plank on top of it. He glances up, and sees the guard watching curiously, and then brings his right hand up, walking his fingers along to the tips of his hand, before setting them down, letting them dangle off the end.

The guard blinks. "The dock, like yesterday?" Brendon can't help it, he claps his hands together once, loud, and gives the guy a delighted thumbs-up. The guard breaks into laughter, and then hauls Brendon up into standing. "All right, hold on," the guard warns him, and for the first time Brendon's really, _really_ glad he's lost his voice, because otherwise the yelp he would've made when the guard picks him up and carries him down the hallway over his shoulder would've shamed him forever.

 

Brendon sighs, and gazes down happily into the water, kicking his feet in it a little now that they don't hurt anymore. He tilts his chin up and squints into the sunlight for a second, and then gives the guard a big grin.

The guard shifts on his feet nervously. "Better?" he asks gruffly. Brendon nods enthusiastically, kicking his feet again. "Good. ...Well, I can't swim, so I'm going to be back at the end of the dock. Just wave when you want to leave, okay?"

Brendon nods again, and waves him off, watching the hulk of the guy's back get smaller and smaller as he goes down the dock, til he's just a speck in the distance. Then he goes back to staring at the water, watching the play of light over it, keeping his eyes peeled for fish.

After about ten minutes of that, though, he gets kind of bored, and sleepy from the sun in his eyes. Brendon considers for a second, then figures what the hell, and shucks off his shirt, lying back on the weatherbeaten boards of the dock and using the fabric to drape over his eyes.

The water underneath him laps gently at the boards and the beams of the dock, and in no time at all, Brendon's dozing.

 

"Bren."

He shifts, and makes a face, throwing his arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight.

" _Brendon_."

He actually tries to mutter _what, god,_ before he remembers where he is, and Brendon sighs heavily and sits up, his shirt falling down into his lap. He glances around at the empty dock, though, and blinks, and wonders if he was dreaming.

" _Brendon_ ," comes the voice again, and this time, Brendon _yanks_ his feet out of the water and cautiously peers over the dock. Two yards away from where his feet were, clinging to one of the support beams, is...a mermaid.

Brendon recoils instantly, alarmed, and turns around to start waving frantically, but then the mermaid starts speaking again, and Brendon pauses because...he knows that voice.

"Brendon, come _on_ , don't just run away again," it says irritably. Brendon frowns and looks back over the edge, really _looks_ at the mermaid's face, and his mouth drops open stupidly.

 _Kara_? he mouths.

"Hi," she says, giving him a wry little smile and a wave. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, and her skin is green and sort of shiny, like fishscales, but otherwise - yeah, it's his sister. Brendon stares some more, completely bewildered. "How are you?" she asks, looking him over, concerned.

He shrugs eloquently, gives her a sarcastic smile and a thumbs-up.

"Yeah, pretty much how I thought," she sighs. "Geez, Brendon." She gazes up at him sadly. "You don't do things by halves, do you? Running away and going to the _witch_ and turning human..." She shudders, and shakes her head. "Mom and Dad would've let you help him eventually, you didn't have to go and - " but she cuts herself off, looking guilty for lecturing. "Sorry."

Brendon shrugs again, giving her a sheepish smile. She swims over, so graceful it's like walking, and pokes one of his legs, making a face at it. "What are they like?"

This time, Brendon's more enthusiastic. He does usually like his legs, after all, so he gives them two big thumbs-up, which makes Kara snort and roll her eyes. She pokes his leg again, and he shivers - her skin is cold, and slick, and strangely smooth.

"Weird," she pronounces, a few seconds later. She swims back over to the beam and holds on, peering up at him. "So...okay, I know you won't want to hear, but mom sent me."

Brendon's first thought is _oh god_ and a burst of terror, but then he realizes Kara means _his_ mom, _real_ mom - or, well, not _Pea Incident_ Mom, at any rate. He nods slowly, frowning.

"He...the king here?" She gestures to the tiny kingdom behind them. "He sent a proclamation out to all the noble families in the area, and Dad's got there this morning and - man, dad's so pissed. I mean, the guy _promised_ a betrothal to anyone who found his kid, he didn't say anything about sex or species or anything, but whatever, anyway, apparently your _prince_ got engaged to the Princess of Andalasia at around three this morning."

Brendon blinks, and the bottom drops out of his stomach. _What?_ he mouths.

Kara bites her lip, and swims forward, pulling herself up out of the water a little. Brendon leans down as much as he can without toppling in, and she gives him an awkward, slimy hug. "I'm sorry, honey," she whispers, patting his back, pulling away and looking genuinely sad. "I wanted it to work out for you."

Brendon's still just _staring_ at her, trying to process. Spencer's engaged. ...To some _princess_ , which, whatever, but. Spencer's _engaged_. Brendon can feel the nausea start to rise up, and he clutches the edge of the dock tightly, worried as his sight swims for a second.

He's not stupid. He'd been hoping that the story wouldn't follow along with the original very closely, but. The absence of any crustacean bands helps to confirm his worries. Which means - he knows what's coming.

Brendon glances over at Kara, wary now. _What did mom say?_ he mouths, clearly, cold starting to spread through him despite the harsh noon sun.

Kara's chin quivers for a second, and she ducks her head. "Mom's...they haven't changed their minds. They think it's wrong. He's a human, and he's _male._ But - but you can't be with him _anyway_ , Bren, not now, so just don't dismiss this out of hand, okay?" she pleads, moving forward again, til she's right underneath him, in between his two feet. She reaches into a pouch slung over her shoulder and Brendon doesn't breathe for a second, and then Kara pulls out a small, twisty little knife.

Brendon swallows, and feels the blood drain away from his face. Yeah, he knows this story.

"We just want you to come _home_ , Bren," Kara says, her eyes getting cloudy before she blinks them clear. "Mom went and talked to the witch, but there's not much else anybody can do."

He shakes his head, pulling his feet out of the water, scooting away from the edge.

"It has to be him, it has to be his blood!" Kara calls, from over the edge of the dock. "You only have through _tonight_ , Brendon, that's all the time we could get you! Please, _please_ , just." And oh, shit, Kara's voice is getting thick and teary, and Brendon can't deal with this, he can't. "You're my brother, and I miss you. Please just come back home."

Brendon curls up into a ball, head on his knees, and can't answer. A handful of seconds pass, and then there's a small splash, and Brendon assumes Kara's gone back home. One more splash, though, and there's a tiny _shink_ , and Brendon peers over the side of the dock.

The little knife, pearl-handled and pretty, is sticking out of one of the boards, still quivering with the force Kara used to keep it there.

Brendon stares at it for a moment, and then pulls it out of the wood. It's small, it can almost fit into his palm, and the sunlight catches on the inlays, making them sparkle a spectrum of colors. He doesn't bother testing the knife; he knows well enough to know that it's sharp. He thinks for a moment, and then slides it between his belt and his pants, til the handle is cool against his skin.

And then he turns back towards land and starts to wave.

 

 

Brendon sits up in the bed and thumbs through a very boring atlas, and waits for Spencer to get back. He's seriously been in meetings _all day_ so far - Brendon figured that getting engaged took a lot of talking and discussion, but six hours? _Really_?

He spares a moment to think about the princess in that other kingdom, the one who found out this morning that she was going to be Spencer's wife.

Spencer's _wife_.

Brendon picks at the small pills of lint on the surface of the bedspread and exhales slowly. He knows that they don't have any of the details of what happened before they got to this story, but he suspects that that princess probably wasn't too upset when she found out. Everyone in the kingdom seems to approve of Spencer, and respect him. Part of Brendon is illogically proud of that, as if it had anything to do with him.

The knife is buried underneath a couple of books in the side table, near the bed. Brendon hadn't been able to look at it anymore as soon as he got back. He was getting twitchy and nauseated at the feel of the handle pressed to his skin, all the way back from the dock.

Brendon winces and rubs at his shins absentmindedly, and after a few more minutes of watching the door, he gives up and lies down on the bed, giving his legs a careful stretch. The coastal breeze is a constant presence in Spencer's quarters, so Brendon reaches to pull the bedsheet up over him, up to his chest. He shifts and fidgets on the mattress for a while, punching one of the pillows viciously until he just...sits up and looks around. Rubs a hand over his face and mouths _who am I kidding_ to the empty room.

He hasn't done this since the Honda Civic Tour, but fuck it, whatever. He's just going to embrace being this much of a loser, in the time he has left here. Brendon frowns and piles all the pillows in a long line on Spencer's side of the bed, and covers it with a blanket, pressing everything down in a few strategic places until the silhouette is something approaching accurate.

Then he grabs one corner of the huge down-filled duvet, tugging it up over the vaguely human-shaped lump in the bed. Brendon curls up next to the pillows, shivering at the initial shock of cold before they start to warm. He buries his face in one as he pulls the corner of the duvet around him, tugging it until its weight settles over him, tucking in like an arm around his waist.

He closes his eyes, and eventually dreams of Kara and Spence and the sea, and surfing. He dreams of Bogart sacked out and wedged between the two of them in Brendon's bed at home, snuffling and pawing at the air in his sleep, running after cats and rabbits and seagulls.

 

 

"Brendon?"

He snuffles, and burrows a little deeper into the covers, hands finding a couple of cool pockets and staying there happily.

"Brendon. Bren. Come on."

He's becoming more and more aware of the hand on his shoulder, rocking gently, like a boat on waves. But - eh, fuck it, he'd been in the middle of a good dream and he's _comfortable_ and like Spencer Smith really has any room to judge _anyone_ on being hard to wake up. He only opens his eyes when he can hear Spencer beginning to lose his temper, and then there's an actual _thump_ against his shoulder and Brendon jolts, tilting his head up, glaring.

And _oh_ , shit, Spencer isn't pissed, he's fucking _freaked_. Brendon blinks up into Spence's wide eyes, and immediately starts fighting with the bedcovers, trying to get them to release him, trying to sit up.

"Dad's..." Spencer starts, before trailing off, looking lost and young. "Seriously, fuck this, he can't just. There are _rules_."

Brendon reaches to grab his hand, and gives it a squeeze, smiling sadly at him.

"Did somebody already tell you what's happening?"

Brendon nods. Spencer turns his head quickly, frowning down at the blanket, concentrating _hard_ on the pattern there. "Yeah, well, fuck this mess," he says finally. "We're leaving."

Brendon gapes for a handful of seconds, long enough for Spencer to slide off the edge of the bed and head towards the closet, tugging a few pairs of trousers and some shirts off of hangers and tossing them onto the bed. Brendon watches, still boggling a little, before he rubs a hand over his face worriedly and glances towards the open windows.

The sun's still high, but the light of the afternoon has taken on a hazy quality, now that the brightest part of the day has burnt away. Brendon bites his lip and watches the play of light against the water for a second, before he's distracted by Spencer attempting to bundle up the clothes into one of the blankets on the foot of the bed.

 _Oh._ Spence's hands are shaking. He reaches for one, grabs it tight enough that Spencer actually looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Brendon bites his lip, and raises his eyebrows, shrugs his shoulders expressively, _what-can-you-do?_ written all over the gesture.

" _No_ ," Spencer spits back, scowling fiercely, using Brendon's grip on his hand to haul him closer, into a tight, desperate hug. "This isn't how it's supposed to go," Spencer mutters into his hair, breath warm and damp. He smells like...lemons and ink and weirdly like the dryer sheets they use at home and Brendon sucks in a quiet breath, closing his eyes, just breathing him in. "And it's not fucking - I'm not playing anymore, fuck this, we can just. We'll just go until we find somewhere else where things don't fucking _suck_ , you know? Fuck it, we can just. Stay here in the book. I don't care."

Brendon feels guilty, but honestly, it's almost a relief to have the burden of replying removed from him right now. There's a sharp, bitter taste at the back of his mouth, but he swallows against it, choosing instead to curl into Spence a little more, invade his space until Spencer's fingers stop gripping his bloodless, until the line of his back loosens.

This _is_ how things are supposed to go. He knows. Spencer has never been as good as Brendon at recognizing lost causes and defeat, never been good at knowing when his energy is just being wasted.

Brendon brushes his mouth against Spencer's cheek, dry and quick, and gives his hand another squeeze. When he pulls back, Spencer is carefully keeping his eyes fixed on the bedspread, blinking hard. Brendon has a moment of weird disconnect where he really, really wants to find Spencer's dad and fucking _punch_ him for making him look like this, but then he remembers how nice Spencer's _real_ dad has always been to him, and he just feels confused.

He settles it by kneeling up on the bed, and tugging the sheets around the ball of clothes Spencer's heaped into the middle, tucking the ends in efficiently and tying them off, not looking up til he's finished. Spencer's recovered, thank god, and is watching him with a slightly startled look on his face. Brendon pulls his hands away with one last gesture, _voila_ , and gives Spence an expectant look.

"Right," Spencer manages a few seconds later, breaking into a small, watery smile, giving Brendon a look so full of naked gratitude that it makes his hands shake. "...Right. Well. We should get going."

Brendon nods grimly, and has to think fast. He gestures towards the bathroom, miming a very very crude gesture for pissing that takes Spencer a couple of tries to get (Spencer Smith has an incredibly filthy mind. Brendon tries to cool the blush from his cheeks, and resolves to _remember_ ). Then he gestures for Spencer to go first, all oh hey just preparing to hit the open seas!

While Spencer's gone, Brendon scoots towards the bedside table and digs his hand underneath the books, accidentally jabbing himself with the tip of the knife before he grabs the handle. He winces and tugs his hand out quickly, sucking the drop of blood off one fingertip, before he leans back and tucks the knife back into his clothes, like earlier.

He doesn't really understand the compulsion quite yet, but it feels _important_.

Spencer comes back, and Brendon does actually have to pee, which is a humiliating process that involves Spencer hanging around just outside the bathroom door and coming in as soon as he hears the water from the sink stop. And while Brendon isn't _averse_ to Spencer seeing his dick (quite the opposite, actually), context is everything and this context _fucking sucks_. Brendon kind of hates his life.

They get back to the room and take one last look around, but they're both unencumbered by wanting to take a lot of _stuff_ with them. It takes them a few minutes of arranging, but finally they manage to get a system going where Brendon hangs onto Spencer's back and holds the bundle of clothes against Spence's chest, and Spencer carts him around piggyback. For not the first time, Brendon is _so relieved_ that one of them, at least, is usually some sort of royalty in these stories - that way, nobody really ever asks them questions when they're doing something odd.

Therefore, they make it to the castle's private dock in less than twenty minutes, what with Spencer taking all the back ways to elude the bodyguards, and Brendon tapping his shoulder whenever he sees someone coming. Spencer gingerly trots down the wooden planks of the dock, on just the toes of his feet, trying not to jar Brendon too much.

Brendon has to suck in a breath at that and squeeze Spencer tighter, and then he tugs Spence's ear and gives him a quick quizzical look, glancing around at their surroundings, an obvious _what the fuck are we doing?_

Spencer gives him a small, crooked smile, and steers them towards a smallish boat at the end of the pier. "Taking this one til we cross into international waters," he says, squeezing at Brendon's arms around his shoulders until Brendon gets the hint and climbs up even tighter, holding on fast. Spencer reaches for the closest line and swings his weight around, hopping gingerly over onto the ship and glancing around to make sure he didn't drop or break anything.

Brendon slowly exhales the breath he was holding, and shudders from the impact and how much it hurt. _Fuck_ , he's tired of his legs feeling like this.

"Then," Spencer continues from a moment earlier, his voice strained as he takes them into the tiny cabin of the boat, "we sail for a while, til we get to a country my family hasn't pissed off. We dock the boat and we make a deal with whoever's in charge and get them to sell us a house, or a ship, or something. And...yeah, the end," he finishes, leaning back so he can drop Brendon onto the incongruously large bed. Seriously, it takes up a good three-quarters of the cabin.

Brendon isn't going to complain, though, because the bed is fucking _awesome_. He stretches and gives Spence a fucking rapturous look, and holds onto the mattress, stroking it tenderly. Spence watches him, one eyebrow quirked up.

"Stop trying to make me jealous," he says after a few seconds, giving Brendon a smirky little look before he dumps their stuff on the bed as well. "Want to come outside and watch us leave, or stay in here?" he asks.

Brendon thinks about this for a second, and then guiltily points back outside, wincing since - well, Spencer just carried him _inside_. He feels like a very large, demanding baby.

There are those among his acquaintance who would claim that the comparison is pretty accurate, but whatever.

Spencer doesn't seem to mind, though. In fact, he kind of...lights up, beaming at Brendon happily, coming back over to gather him up and help him back onto his back. They both duck down to avoid hitting their heads on the low cabin ceiling, and then they're both outside again.

Brendon blinks up into the sun, and points to the seat he wants, pretending to steer Spencer by his hair, like Remy steered Alfredo in _Ratatouille_. "Dick," Spencer snorts, laughing quietly as he submits, letting Brendon tug and pull before he gently puts Brendon in his seat. "Okay?"

Brendon nods happily, and stretches out in the sun, leaning his head back against the back of the boat comfortably. He lets his eyes close, and listens to the sounds of Spencer fiddling with lines and pulleys and shit, and then listens to the melodious sound of Spencer Smith using every single curse word he can think of, when captaining a ship proves a little more difficult than he'd planned on.

After about twenty minutes of Spencer dicking around, Brendon finally feels a lurch and a pull, and he opens his eyes just in time to see Spencer throw up victory arms and give a whoop. "Fuckin' _commandeered_ , baby!" he shouts, just before he realizes that they're veering off-course, and immediately brings his hands back down to the wheel to actually, y'know, _steer._. Brendon's shoulders shake with laughter, and he tips his face back to the sun and grins, and doesn't think about later.

 

Like most things having to do with machines and engines and things with _gears_ , Spencer figures out the mechanics of the ship pretty easily. (Brendon privately thinks this is one reason they work so well - Spencer _gets_ things with gears, and Brendon _gets_ things with strings, and between them they can usually conquer any musical instrument or music-related equipment that the industry can throw at them. Sometimes it even has real-world applicability, like now!) Within an hour, he's located the maps from the cabin and has charted a course for them, and now he's lounging back in a chair, propping his feet up on the wheel, using them to steer.

Brendon has seen Spencer do this in a _car_. It was no less terrifying then. In fact, the terror was _much greater_ and he still can't drive through Oklahoma without shuddering a little.

He scowls and scowls and scowls, until Spencer finally takes the hint and stops, sitting up and putting his hands back on the wheel for a bit, before he gets bored and wanders over to where Brendon's sitting, which, _what_. Brendon gives him an incredulous glare, and points insistently over at the unmanned steering wheel.

"Dude, we're going in a straight line. There is _no traffic_ ," Spencer points out, and yeah, Brendon can see the logic in that, but he is still being _transported in a vehicle which currently has no driver_. He gives Spencer a flat look and points over at the wheel again.

Spencer smirks down at him. "It's boring over there," he says simply, taking a step forward. Brendon sucks in a breath as Spencer slides his knees onto the bench, straddling his hps, but Spencer doesn't press or anything, just sits there, barely putting any of his weight on Brendon's legs. Brendon gets the feeling that Spencer is sort of afraid that if he does, Brendon will get hurt, and it makes his stomach shockingly swoopy to think of Spencer internally debating coming over here and climbing up on his seat like this. He can't help but smile a little, god he is _so easy_ , and he ducks his head, looking down at where his hands are sliding up around Spencer's thighs.

It takes a few seconds, but Brendon's finally composed enough not to start snickering at Spencer the minute he looks up at him. When he glances up, though, he's kind of shocked at how _dark_ Spencer's eyes can get, and he sucks in a quick breath before Spencer leans in and kisses him quickly. Spencer's tongue licks into his mouth and stays there for a few seconds, pressed down against the inside of Brendon's lip, swiping slowly over it.

Brendon shivers and thinks _mine_ for one seriously heady moment, and then squeezes his fingers a little tighter into the meat of Spencer's legs. His hands slide up Spence's legs, tracing the outer seam of his pants, and then Spencer starts flicking the tip of his tongue against Brendon's teeth and _fuck_. Brendon's hands stop and squeeze again, and it takes him until Spencer's quiet groan against his lips to realize that hey, he's totally got his hands on Spencer's ass.

Which - _of course_ he would be completely unconscious of finally managing to grope Spencer properly. Of course. Brendon can't help grinning against Spencer's mouth a little, but then Spence bites at his bottom lip and Brendon shudders and pulls him closer and they're not so much kissing anymore as pretending not to grind against each other. Brendon pants against Spencer's lips, breaking away for long enough to take a couple of really deep breaths, when he notices the shift of Spence's hips, restless and twitchy and almost in time with the way the waves are rocking the boat.

"Bren," Spencer mutters softly, scooting his knees up further on the chair, his hair falling around their faces until Brendon can feel it tickling his chin. He squeezes again, basically - fuck, he's basically just _kneading Spencer's ass_ now, and then he pulls Spencer in more, until his hips are flush with Brendon's chest. And normally he wouldn't find it hot to have a guy's half-hard dick dragging steadily against his stomach, but _fuck_ \- Brendon breaks away from Spencer's mouth, wanting _so badly_ to groan or curse or just manage to say _something_ , fuck.

Above him, Spencer looks flushed and astonished, his hair still falling across his eyes. Brendon swallows painfully and just _stares_ at him for a few seconds, before he has to get more. He slides his left hand up, pressing it under Spencer's untucked shirt and sliding it around to his stomach, taking only a couple of seconds until he bunches the material in his fist and tugs up. And fuck, Spencer's skin is pale and pretty and smooth, and he has to tug Spence up, using his grip on Spencer's shirt and ass to haul him up on his knees.

"What - _oh_ ," Spencer gasps, his head tilting back as Brendon lunges forward, licking and sucking and biting at his chest. " _Fuck_ ," he manages, strangled, before Spencer shivers and fists his hands in Brendon's hair, rubbing tight against his chest, not even bothering to try to stop himself anymore. He's breathing kinda hard, dragging in very steady, long breaths of air, putting what looks like a lot of effort into exhaling them, and Brendon can see the whole long line of Spencer's throat, the way his adam's apple moves every time he swallows.

Brendon sucks in a couple of deep breaths around the skin of Spencer's chest, pausing to lick at the line of a rib before he moves back up. He has vague plans forming in his head, mostly ones that involve handjobs and Spencer making _more noise_ than he is now - he has to make up for Brendon's deficit, after all - and Brendon getting at Spencer's nipples, because those have been _teasing_ him since he was in high school, and he's not going to stand for it anymore.

He whines silently, sucking a mark into Spencer's skin as he slides his hand off his ass and has to palm his dick subtly, pressing the heel of his hand against it and rolling his hips up until things get a little easier.

"Oh fuck, are you," Spencer gasps, tilting his head back down to watch Brendon, eyes wide. " _Yeah_ , god," he groans, tilting forward to kiss Brendon haphazardly, their lips sliding together for a few seconds. "You should - "

But Brendon never gets to find out what Spencer's going to say, because right then, the boat pushes up against a pretty big wave, crashing into it and making the two of them fall over onto the floor in a sprawl of limbs. A wave of water washes over the side of the boat, soaking them, and it's like the fucking book _wants to cockblock him_ , Brendon fumes to himself, as he manages to pick himself up and grab onto a railing, lurching forward and back as the boat pushes through another couple of medium-sized waves.

Spencer scrambles to his feet too, kind of glassy-eyed and disheveled. His mouth is red and raw and swollen, and he pushes his wet hair off of his forehead before he gives Brendon a sheepish little grin. He slumps back over to the steering wheel, checking their course and turning the wheel an eighth of a rotation, until they're moving at a different angle to the waves.

Brendon glares at him, and manages the step back over to his seat, dropping down into it and shifting uncomfortably. It turns out that almost getting knocked overboard by a big fucking wave is a pretty effect bonerkill, but _goddammit_ , he was getting into that.

He fidgets some more, scowling as the salt water makes his pants kind of scratchy, and flips Spencer off when he realizes he's laughing, his shoulders shaking. "Sorry," Spencer tells him, watching Brendon with dark, interested eyes. Brendon shivers, but gives him another glare, and squints out at the unchanging horizon.

 

The sun's starting to get really low in the sky before Spencer points to a barely-visible strip of black against the water. He's actually managed to navigate them to land for the evening, and Brendon rolls his eyes at how pleased Spencer is with himself, even though he's privately pretty impressed, too.

They make it to the docks just as the last of the sunset is fading away, and Spencer talks with the owners for a while before producing some coins and handing them over, shuffling back over the the boat with a hand on the back of his neck and a small smile on his face.

"They're putting us at the very last pier," he tells Brendon, going up to the wheel and starting to do some very complicated-looking maneuvers that Brendon suspects even Spencer doesn't really understand.

It works, though. They manage not to run into any other boats, and Spencer parks, or moors, or docks, or _whatever_ one does to a boat, he does it at the very last spot on the very last pier, at least an eighth of a mile away from the next boat out.

"Shit-scared of something happening to royalty on their watch," Spencer explains wryly, coming up to sit beside Brendon and watch the sky turn from dark pink to purple into night blue. Stars begin to wink on in the sky, and Brendon sighs softly, and leans his head against the knob of Spencer's shoulder. He can still smell Spencer, under the salt water and sweat, a weird cinnamon kind of scent that's always translated into something like _home_ for him. It always makes him feel better.

Brendon's chest tightens, twists a little, and he has to press his mouth to Spencer's shoulder for a few seconds until the wave of sadness ends, because how do you tell someone that this was probably your last sunset? He's left with only a few options, and all of them sound like bad Lifetime movies, and fuck that shit. He isn't being anybody's Valerie Bertinelli.

It sucks because he keeps on having these moments where he _forgets_ , or he starts to _hope_ , and really he just. This story doesn't have a happy ending. He _knows_ that. He just needs to stop forgetting.

Brendon sucks in a long, shaky breath through his nose, and exhales it quietly, closing his eyes as Spence shifts and wraps an arm around him. Then there's a nose pressed against his temple, lips against his ear, and shit, this would be a lot easier on him if they weren't already so good at doing this. All of the casual touches and teasing and laughing and knowing each other's favorite everything and basically his favorite parts of a relationship, they're _already there_ , he and Spence already know all of them. He got to bypass the anxiety of dating and the first few meetups where everybody's all nervous and doesn't know where to put their hands, and the job interview-type questions, and all of it - he got, basically, three days of what he's spent a very large and expensive chunk of his life looking for.

And now he's got to willingly give it up.

Brendon squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that if he does, they'll stop stinging.

"Hey," Spencer murmurs into his ear, rubbing his back idly. "You hungry?"

 

They have a glorious topside dinner of bread, sliced tomatoes, and cheese, and Spencer cheerfully shows Brendon their charted course on his maps, talking ten miles a minute about knots per hour and weather forecasts and basically being a _big huge geek_ about his newfound hobby. Brendon tilts his head and watches him fondly, the way Spence's eyes light up and he starts gesturing with his hands like a crazy person, when he really gets into what he's talking about.

He's okay, Brendon thinks. It's going to be okay for him.

Brendon can't help himself, though, he manages to wait until Spencer finishes his sentence about something being "fore" and "aft" and then he leans forward, closing the small distance between them and pressing their lips together, light and sweet and lingering.

Spencer sucks in a quiet breath, and brings a hand up to cup Brendon's elbow, steadying him a little as they both settle in against each other for a bit. He still tastes a little bit acidic from the tomatoes, Brendon realizes, and he licks his lips as he pulls away, and presses his forehead to Spencer's, and thinks as _hard_ as he can, feeling like he's shouting it out into the ether, _love love love, this is love, this is it, don't let him forget it_.

"You okay?" Spence mutters, rubbing his arm softly, giving him a concerned look. Brendon nods and smiles, tilting his chin up to press their mouths together for another couple of seconds before he sinks down against Spencer and stays there, watching the stars blink on and off in the sky, watching the boat's gentle rise and fall from the waves in the dock.

Yeah. He's okay.

 

They go to bed not long after, Spence tugging Brendon up into his arms and carrying him into the cabin, putting him down on the bed and immediately starting to pull his shirt up for him. Brendon rolls his eyes and smiles slightly, and obediently puts his arms above his head, helping Spence tug it over his ears and off.

He waggles his eyebrows at the hot, interested look Spencer gives him, and reaches to give Spencer a hand too, but then he remembers the knife tucked into the yards of fabric wrapped around his waist, and Brendon blanches a little. He still cranes up to kiss Spencer's newly bare shoulders because _damn_ , but he pulls back with an apologetic look after just a minute, slumping back onto the mattress and giving Spencer his best exhausted look.

And Spencer - because he is awesome and sweet and _seriously, stop making things harder, Spence_ \- just bites his lip and smiles back, rubbing a hand over Brendon's side before he shuffles down to lie beside him.

"I hesitate to tell you this and somehow contribute to your spending even _more_ time naked," Spencer says conversationally, pressing his mouth to Brendon's bare shoulder, "but you're pretty hot without any clothes on."

Brendon snorts, grinning a little as he shuffles around until they're facing each other, curled up on their sides on the bed. He raises his eyebrows at Spence and tilts his chin, an _I know_ gesture. Then he points down toward his crotch, and holds his hands out a good foot and a half from each other in measurement, and gives Spence a double thumbs up.

Spencer snorts and starts laughing, grabbing for Brendon and pulling him in close, snickering into his hair. Brendon grins and closes his eyes, and drapes his arm over Spencer's warm back. Yep. Totally okay.

 

Spencer falls asleep not too much later, lulled by the rocking of the sea and their combined steady breathing, and by the way Brendon's totally content to just kiss him lazily until he drops off. Brendon closes his eyes and breathes him in, but he can't quite get his brain to shut off yet. Which is all right, he thinks. He can wait.

 

Three hours later, Brendon is emphatically _not okay_. He is still awake, and he is watching Spence sleep, and he's freaking out a little bit, and he's got...maybe five hours til sunrise? Maybe? And he keeps _thinking_.

Fucking - he's going to miss _everything_. He's going to miss making another album with just him and Spence, and he's going to miss going back on tour, and they were totally going to be dicks and string Dallon along for a little bit before they told him they'd already made up their mind and wanted him in, and he's going to miss being around for his nieces' and nephews' birthdays, and he's going to miss being around for his _own_ kids' birthdays, because he totally wanted kids, and _fuck_ he's starting to refer to his life _in the past tense_ , because he's not going to get any kids, and he's _good_ with kids, and so is Spence, and oh fuck he wants a family with Spencer, he fucking _wants it so bad,_ he wants their house and their dog and maybe a couple _more_ dogs and some _kids_ who would be totally as awesome as Bronx except awesomer because they'd be _his_ , and he would change their diapers and cry when they went to school and threaten to buy a gun when they started dating and he and Spence would both give the girls away at their weddings and. Their _family_.

 _Fuck_.

Brendon presses his hands hard to his eyes, but he can't quite help the shaky sob that rattles loose from him, or the silent tears that follow. He knows he's being sort of crazy, but he can't just. Be _happy_ about this. Even though he knows it's the only way to keep Spencer safe, he can't shake how now he's never going to get into any fights with Spence, any _couples_ fights, and they're not going to get to have lots of sex (seriously, he'd been _looking forward_ to all the sex), and he's not going to get to see Spence growing into an old man, he's not going to be right there beside him, getting old too. Fucking - he'd had _plans_. Gardens and _sex_ and lunchboxes and lazy makeouts and tours and _winning_ Tour Gay Chicken for the first time and rubbing it in Pete's _face_ and doing that collab with Patrick and eventually making up with Ryan and Jon and always teasing them about a reunion tour. In his darkest, most pathetic of moments, he'd even planned what he wanted his wedding to be like, and now he realizes it kind of caters to all of Spencer's preferences too.

They'd have had an awesome wedding, Brendon thinks, wiping at his face in frustration as he tries to get himself back under control. He looks over at Spencer, who's sleeping peacefully with one arm flung across his eyes, and Brendon's face crumples a little before he can help it. He hits the mattress on the far side with his fist, and wipes his eyes again, and tells himself to fucking _get a grip_.

It takes a couple of minutes. Brendon has to take a few deep, painful breaths and let them out slowly, and he has to make sure he doesn't glance over at Spence, but eventually he settles down, feeling weirdly calmer after his little meltdown. He glances over at Spencer, and while it's still sort of achy, he can watch Spencer breathe, and he can smile a little as he notices one piece of hair falling into his mouth. He reaches over and pushes the hair away, letting his fingertips linger against Spencer's cheekbone, and then he has to curl over and press his lips there, mouthing a soft _love you love you love you_ into the skin.

 

***

 

Spencer shifts groggily, and he can feel something light and sort of warm pressing up against his cheek, but he doesn't even think to try to brush it away. It's not unpleasant and he's fallen asleep in a pile with other people enough times not to freak out about someone's hand or arm or whatever on his face.

He does groan and open his eyes, though, blinking them into glittering slits enough that he can just make out Brendon hovering over him. He can't help the lazy, pleased smile he feels spreading everywhere on his face, he can only hope it doesn't make him look to dumb. "Hey," he mumbles, stretching a little, accidentally knocking into Brendon's shoulder with his hand and then keeping it there. "Mmph, sorry."

Brendon gives him a crooked smile, and Spencer blinks again, clearing his vision enough to notice that Brendon's eyes are kind of red and his mouth is still pulled down on one side, serious and unhappy, and - actually, his eyes are too, his whole face is pretty much screaming _miserable_. Spencer frowns a little, and tries to sit up. "Hey, what's - "

But he doesn't get to finish, because Brendon's crawling up, his knees knocking into Spencer's sides before he pulls himself on top of Spencer and kisses him hard, their teeth clacking together. Spencer grunts softly, and instinctively brings his arms up, wrapping them tight around Brendon and just holding on as he tries to wake up and _catch_ up and figure out what, exactly, is happening.

Brendon's not giving him a very good chance to do that. He's already squirming in Spencer's grasp, and seriously, that's just _unfair_ , Spencer can't be expected to handle that with grace when he's still half-asleep. He groans, and spreads his fingers out over Brendon's back, over as much skin as he can reach, and thrusts up a little.

He can hear Brendon suck in a breath, and Spencer has just enough time to feel a flash of seriously crippling embarrassment before Brendon _shudders_ , all through his body, and presses down with his hips, deliberate and slow and _fuck_ , so good. He lets out another shaky little groan before he can stop himself, and Brendon shivers and rocks down onto Spencer's lap, pushing him back and kissing him again, licking into his mouth urgently.

"Ngh, fuck," Spencer manages, slicking his tongue against Brendon's, giving him whatever he needs for a long moment, until he feels himself starting to get seriously lightheaded. He pulls away from Brendon's mouth long enough to kiss at his cheek, slide his lips along Brendon's skin until he feels Brendon gripping tight fists in the pillowcase on either side of his head. He mouths along Brendon's jaw, back towards his ear, and wraps his arms tighter around Brendon's back, tugging him in close and grinding up against him with absolutely no finesse.

Shit, Brendon is _shaking_. Spencer's arms loosen just a little, and he pulls back, enough to see Brendon biting his own bottom lip hard and staring down at their hips, at how they keep rocking away and together in rhythm, and seriously, Brendon concentrating so hard on grinding himself down against Spencer's cock is about the hottest thing Spencer's ever seen in his _life_.

"God, you're seriously going to kill me," Spencer gasps, reaching for him, sliding a hand down Brendon's bare chest and watching greedily as Brendon shoots him a swift, hot look from under his lashes. Brendon's still biting his lip, but he smiles just a little, and Spencer can see the outline of both his and Brendon's dicks, the way Brendon keeps shifting a little, swiveling his hips until he manages to get the slide _just_ right. Then - _fuck_ , Spencer's toes curl at the long thrust and drag of Brendon's cock against his. He clutches Brendon to him and can't help working his hips up in these quick, short little thrusts that make Brendon gasp and writhe, arching his back and rocking his hips feverishly in Spencer's lap.

And it's not that Spencer's _new_ at sex or anything, but the sight of Brendon bowed back, his mouth open and his throat bare and his eyes shut tight, makes him feel sort of shaky and out of control. He's not - he wasn't expecting this, but _fuck_ , he's grateful anyway. Brendon is sweaty and shaking and perfect above him, and Spencer is really afraid he's just going to come in his pants at any point.

He can do something about that, at least. Spencer bites his lip and stills his hips, squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling a long, hard breath for a second as he regains his equilibrium. Above him, Brendon slows and opens his eyes, gazing down at him with a worried sort of look.

"No, hey," Spencer says, craning up to kiss him again, needing to give him the assurance. "Keep going," he says, leaning back enough to snake a hand in between them, tugging on the knot of Brendon's sash.

Brendon glances down and then back up, and gives him a quick, delighted grin. It fades a little as he sits back and starts fighting with the knot of his sash, which has seriously kind of _cemented_ itself tied, but he finally manages to worm his thumbnail in and start to pick it apart, shuddering and tilting his head back as Spencer starts moving underneath him.

"God," Spencer breathes, sliding his hands over the slight swell of Brendon's hips, his fingers cupping them perfectly, as Brendon rocks his hips slowly and finally gets the knot totally undone. He watches, pleased, as Brendon carefully tugs the sash loose and tucks it in a fastidious heap on the bedside table.

And then Brendon turns his focus back on Spencer, and grins again, his mouth breaking into the first cheerful, unselfconscious smile Spencer has seen on him all day. Spencer can't help it, he laughs a little, so _fucking_ happy. "Okay?"

Brendon nods, and waggles his eyebrows, beginning to smirk. Spencer pats him on the hip a couple of times, gesturing for him to sit up a little, and Brendon shimmies a little as he gets up on his knees and watches Spencer tug open the laces on his pants, until he can wriggle his fingers inside.

Spencer bites his lip, his head tilting a little as he tries to get the pants looser and actually _get at_ Brendon's dick, and then - _ha_ , he feels Brendon go still and tense above him, and he gets his hand further down, and he actually shivers a little as his fingers close loosely around Brendon's cock.

He strokes a little, slow and sort of cramped, until he brings his other hand around and manages to get the strings on the pants loose enough to actually work them down Brendon's hips a little, then things get a lot easier. Brendon, though - Spencer glances up and Brendon's got his eyes shut, and his eyebrows are furrowed, and his mouth is open a little but he's looking sort of serious again.

"Hey," Spencer murmurs, reaching up for him, sliding his hand around the back of Brendon's neck. "Hey, c'mere." He tugs a little, until Brendon opens his eyes and smiles a little, letting himself be dragged down into a comfortable kiss. Spencer licks up into his open mouth, unhurried and lazy, and rocks his hips gently until Brendon smiles a little and thrusts up, into his hand.

Spencer smirks and loosens his fingers a little, and yelps when Brendon huffs and viciously pinches his side. "That was not safe, sane, _or_ consensual, dicksmack," he grumbles under his breath, making Brendon's shoulders shake with laughter. He tightens his grip, though, and actually starts to pump over Brendon's dick a little, feeling that he's teased for long enough.

They stay that way for a minute, Brendon working his hips about as lazily as Spencer's snapping his wrist, but then Brendon sighs and tilts back down to kiss him, and he tries to get a hand in between them _too_ , fiddling with the fastenings of Spencer's pants, and seriously it's already crowded enough in there for just _Spencer_. He stops, and drags his hand away, and endures a frustrated bite to his shoulder from Brendon.

"Goddammit," he grumps, "just hang on, fuck." He presses back into the mattress a little, enough to get some more space in between them, enough to undo the ties and button on his pants and push them down around his hips efficiently.

As soon as he realizes what's going on, Brendon sits back and watches appreciatively, stroking absentmindedly over his own dick with his fingers, grinning a little as Spencer lies back, mostly naked. He stares down for a good long while, until Spencer rolls his eyes, and then _smirks_ up at Spencer and gives him an A-OK sign, crawling back on top of him and settling down.

And - yeah, both of them quickly suck a breath between their teeth, because _fuck_ , the feeling of skin against skin was worth the time. Spencer groans softly and wraps his arms around Brendon's back again, holding onto his shoulders as Brendon immediately starts to snap his hips.

Spencer shivers again, and tilts his head back into the pillow as he feels Brendon's lips traveling interestedly down his neck. He's not prepared for the sudden _bite_ that follows, or the way Brendon sucks almost too hard at his skin. He jolts underneath Brendon and moans a little, squirming and feeling a flush of blood run to his face as Brendon gives him what feels like a really serious hickey.

Which, okay, a little bit high school but he's always kind of liked it, so Spencer shifts and fidgets and grabs at Brendon a little bit harder, rocking his hips up fast, breathless at the occasional pop and gross-sounding slurp Brendon makes against his skin until he's done.

Spencer actually cries out a little bit when Brendon immediately moves just a few inches away and starts working on another one, because okay...okay, this might actually be a _thing_ for him that he wasn't even aware of. It's making him kind of shaky, the sharp sting and the soft press of Brendon's tongue against his skin, concentrated onto this one small point, and god he can't. He shudders and slides his hands up, fisting into Brendon's hair a little less gently than he normally would, writhing on the sheets as Brendon sucks bruises into his skin that are going to take days - fuck, probably _weeks_ to heal.

"Oh my god," Spencer breathes, ending on a whine, arching as much as he can under Brendon's weight and rocking against him, _hard_ , moving a hand back down to grab Brendon's ass and haul him in. Brendon sucks in a startled breath and then Spencer feels a weird rumble against his neck and he realizes that Brendon's just moaned, silent, against his skin.

"Brendon, hey," he gasps, pressing up against him, using the hand on his ass to rock them tight together. "Hey, you - oh, oh _fuck_ ," he manages, as he starts to shake. He tries to slow down, keep his hips from losing their rhythm, but fucking _Brendon_ pulls back suddenly and decides to watch him, and rocks down hard against him, snapping back and forth in tight, fast little circles, and _god_ the image of Brendon's hips working like that, Spencer's never going to manage to get it out of his head.

Spencer closes his eyes, still caught off-guard when his orgasm slams into him a few seconds later. He bites down hard on his lip and swallows the groan that wants to get out, his whole body locking up and shuddering as he gets come on his stomach and _Brendon's_ stomach and...everywhere, basically. Brendon's still rocking on top of him, reaching down to jerk his own cock roughly, and Spencer glances down in time to see Brendon's fingers slip through his come and use it to stroke his own cock, and he gasps at about the same time Brendon does, and watches him shake apart.

Brendon - god. His chest and shoulders go all flushed, and Brendon shudders, and keeps stroking, his head slumping down as he doesn't stop moving right away. Spencer rubs his hand up Brendon's arm, watching him carefully. "Whoa, hey," he murmurs, reaching up to pull Brendon back down, gentler this time, tucking Brendon down against him protectively.

Shit, he's still _shaking_. Spencer props up onto one elbow and looks him over, dragging the bedsheet over Brendon, up to his shoulders. "Brendon," he whispers, ducking his head until Brendon can't help but glance over at him, looking sort of shaken. "Hi," he says, giving him a smile.

Brendon smiles back, small and somehow wrong, and Spencer thinks _what?_ for a second before he keeps trying to figure it out. He exhales softly and slides an arm tight around Brendon's middle, tugging him close and pressing his lips to his forehead lightly. "What did - "

He doesn't get a chance to finish, because Brendon's fingers are suddenly on his chin, tilting Spencer's face down til their eyes are meeting again. Spencer snorts, but then realizes that Brendon's eyes are serious. _Shit_. "No, hey, what's wrong?" he asks, dreading the answer.

Brendon frowns and shakes his head a little, and then shifts closer, til their noses are almost touching. Spencer can sort of see his mouth moving once, and then twice, more insistent, but - he frowns and pulls back a little, then gets bewildered when Brendon's face falls.

"No, no, no," he says hastily, flapping a hand between them. "I didn't see you. Say it again," he asks, squinting at Brendon's mouth, pretending not to see Brendon roll his eyes.

 _Love you_ , Brendon mouths, sort of wryly this time, raising his eyebrows at Spencer.

" _Oh_ ," Spencer says, feeling warm relief and pure fucking unadulterated _happiness_ seep through him. He grins a little, at that, and can't help tugging Brendon back in, holding onto him tight. "Yeah, no wonder you freaked out when I didn't say anything," he muses, rubbing Brendon's back lightly. "God, is that what you were worried about? Brendon." He pulls back, just enough to give him sort of an incredulous look. "I love you too."

Brendon blinks, and doesn't react for a couple of seconds, and then he smiles a little and ducks his head, pressing it against Spencer's shoulder for a minute or two. Spencer watches him, bemused but somehow unable to stop _smiling_ , and pats his shoulder gently.

When he finally pulls his head back up, Brendon's eyes are kind of red again. But he nods and gives Spencer a sheepish little smile and tucks himself back into Spencer's side comfortably, pressing the cold tip of his nose to Spencer's bare skin, chuckling softly as Spencer squawks.

 _Ha_ , Spencer thinks to himself, incredibly pleased by life. He kisses the top of Brendon's head, and cuddles him up unabashedly, and then realizes they're both still pretty much naked and starts laughing as he bullies Brendon into at least halfway doing up their pants again.

God, they're both a _mess_ , but that's okay. They're surrounded by water, they can do something about it in the morning.

Beside him, Brendon's breathing is steady - if shallow - and he's curled up tight against Spencer, like he'll never be able to get close enough. Spencer kisses his forehead, and makes a surprised little noise as Brendon drags him down for a heated, thorough kiss, focusing on every part of Spencer's mouth, it feels like, before he releases him.

Spencer blinks, but sinks in against Brendon contentedly. "Love you," he mumbles, because he _can, ha_ , and he feels Brendon sigh into his shoulder and nod his head. Spencer yawns and tries to wait for Brendon to drift off before he does, as usual, but he closes his eyes, and he can hear the waves and Brendon's breathing, and he's not really sure who falls asleep first.

 

Spencer feels Brendon's kiss to his cheek, but he just groans and rolls over onto his stomach, not wanting to get up right away. "Too early," he mumbles, and when he opens his eyes he's sort of surprised at how he's totally _right_ \- the sky outside isn't even light yet. It's starting to get light _er_ , but it's still dark blue, so it doesn't even qualify as morning. What the hell?

Spencer grumbles and rolls back over, onto his back, and pushes his hair up out of his face as he looks over for Brendon. His side of the bed is rumpled and empty and Spencer feels a short pang of fear, but y'know, there aren't that many places on the boat he can go. He closes his eyes, and opens them again, and things are less bleary.

Brendon's on the other side of the cabin, hovering out the open door, watching the sky get lighter and lighter with the promise of sunlight. Spencer can feel the goofy smile start to steal over his face as he watches Brendon, a dark silhouette against the brightening sky. He sits up a little, and stretches, and watches curiously as Brendon palms whatever he was fiddling with, in his right hand, and a few seconds later _hurls_ it over the edge of the boat. Spencer thinks he sees a reflected slash of light, but it could just be that he's still mostly asleep.

"Mmph, g'morning," he yawns, rubbing a hand over his hair. He grins as Brendon turns around sharply, looking at him with shock and - weird, some sort of _fear_ in his eyes. "Did I scare you?" Spencer asks, tilting his head.

Brendon blinks, and then smiles for him, warm, and mouths _'morning_ back. They both just sort of grin at each other like idiots, for a few seconds, and then Brendon looks over his shoulder, out at the deep sea beyond them, where the tide's picking up and the seagulls are starting to call.

And then he looks back at Spencer, his face getting serious again. Spencer watches him, shifting forward on the bed a little, concerned - fuck, Brendon's lip is shaking a little.

But Brendon smiles, then. Spencer stares at him, at his overbright eyes and wavery smile, and is _totally. confused_ as he sighs and mouths _Spence_ fondly, tilting his head.

He raises his eyebrows, and smiles back, hopeful.

 _Love you_ , Brendon mouths, his smile going sort of wistful for a second. _Love you a lot._

And then he turns and takes four faltering strides to the prow of the boat, still pointed out to sea, and before Spencer can even get up or shout or do anything but stare in horror, Brendon hops over the side of the boat, and disappears.

 

It only takes Spencer about a second and a half to snap into action, but that's a pretty crucial second and a half. He flies out of bed and scrambles for the edge of the boat, peering over the railing and shouting Brendon's name hoarsely, but - it's fucking hard to see, because the very first rays of the sun are _just_ beginning to peek over the horizon, and he can't figure out where Brendon could have got to so quickly, and the waves are kind of choppy.

He fists his hands in his hair crazily, and keeps shouting Brendon's name out to the water, unable to stop, and paces around the deck for a few seconds.

Then - out of the corner of his eye - he thinks he sees the bare outline of a figure, lit up by the sun. He blinks, and squints, and fuck it, that's good enough for him - Spencer hops up onto the first bar of the railing and jumps as far out over the water as he can manage, barely able to wait until he actually hits the water before he starts treading it.

His heart is pounding, and his eyes are stinging, and Spencer's not really sure if that's from the sudden dip in freezing saltwater or the fact that he just saw Brendon - he just saw -

Spencer pauses, and gets hit on the head by a wave, and nearly goes under. At the last second, he sees the figure he's been looking for, only about ten feet away and bobbing just under the surface of the water. He's -

oh, _fuck_ , he recognizes the shirt.

When he comes up, gasping and spitting water, Spencer immediately makes for Brendon's shadow, the pale of his shirt disappearing as the water sucks him deeper and deeper in. Spencer manages to get to where Brendon _was_ , and looks around crazily, and takes a huge breath before he ducks under the surface, diving down as fast as he can.

And - seriously, fuck the ocean - he opens his eyes, just a slit, pushing away the almost overpowering sting as he actually looks around himself for the first time. Below him, he thinks he sees a blob of white, and he immediately presses towards it, not paying attention to the growing pressure in his lungs.

He's - it's _Brendon_. He can't just.

Spencer blinks, and pushes everything he has into closing the last little distance between them, and he reels back a little as he overshoots his target, his head starting to hurt as he waits for Brendon to just...drift into him.

And oh, god. He's - his eyes are closed, and Spencer can barely see him from the salt water but his mouth is shut and he's not breathing. And he's starting to get... _hazy_ , what the fuck, and Spencer tries to close his hands around Brendon's wrist and comes away clutching water.

He's _dissolving_.

 _Why is Brendon dissolving?_ Spencer kicks in the water and thinks frantically, trying to remember all the fucked-up versions of fairy tales he was told over the course of his childhood - there was one with seafoam, but he can't remember - did _he_ do this? When he just put them on a boat and said _fuck it_ to the whole fairy tale idea, did he somehow cause -

Spencer chokes a little, and reaches for Brendon, his arms moving slowly and carefully and he searches for the fast decreasing solidity of Brendon's body, and he presses his eyes closed tight, unable to look anymore. If he doesn't look, it's easier to think that it's a bad dream, that Brendon isn't fucking - oh _god_ , there's so little of him left, Spencer's trying so hard to be still and soft for him but there's so little of him _left_. And it's Spencer's fault somehow and in a few seconds there's going to be _nothing_ , he's not going to have anything of Brendon left, Brendon's going to -

He holds what's left of Brendon gently to him, and swallows, and Spencer can actually feel his heart breaking. It's only a few seconds before he feels himself run out of air.

And it's such a long way to the surface.

Spencer thinks for a second, and decides to just keep his eyes closed and keep still. It's not bad - just an increase in pressure, like taking off in an airplane. The back of his eyelids is taking on a hazier, more permanent quality, and Spencer...really doesn't regret it, he doesn't regret the stories or Frank or Gerard, he doesn't regret the wolf or killing the dragon or going blind or any of it.

He's okay with this ending. He got to be with Brendon.

He keeps his eyes closed, and waits, and it's not much longer at all before he feels a familiar dissolving, fading, brightening-to-white nothing come and claim him.


	10. the last story and then one

Spencer blinks his eyes open, and immediately coughs up about three liters of salt water, all over Brendon's expensive oriental rug. He gasps, his lungs burning uncontrollably, and retches a little, hacking and wheezing and _completely confused_. When his ears stop ringing so horrifyingly loud, he starts to hear... _barking_ at the side of his face, and Spencer forces his eyes open, wincing at how painful they are, and he turns his head and groans.

A small pink tongue licks frantically at his face, and Spencer quickly splutters and turns his head, giving himself an instant headache. "God, what - " he croaks, before he realizes.

 _He knows that sound._

Spencer's eyes open, all the way this time, and he blinks in absolute astonishment as Bogart, fucking Bogart, _Bogart_ hops around in front of him, yapping and wagging his tail and acting like a complete idiot. Spencer gasps, and forces his arms to work, and pushes himself up. "Oh my god. Boges, Bogart, Bogie, hey," he rasps, pushing himself up and reaching shaking fingers out, gasping as Bogart licks them interestedly. "Oh my god."

And then Bogart barks again, rearing back a little, whining as he trots over to Spencer's right side, and Spencer turns and promptly falls back, his arm slipping out from under him.

Brendon's splayed out against him, unmoving and soaked and face-down on the rug.

"Fuck," Spencer breathes, not paying attention to Bogart anymore, immediately reaching for Brendon and turning him around. He's not - _fuck_ , he's not breathing, but he's not blue anywhere, but _he's not breathing_. Spencer's mind races and he tries to remember the safety class Pete forced them to take when he heard they'd taken up surfing, and he crawls up onto aching limbs, shaking violently as he straddles Brendon's chest and starts to pump, trying like _fuck_ to remember what he can about rescue breathing and CPR. It's all a haze of making sure he tilts Brendon's chin back and pumps to _Staying Alive_ and _fuck_ , why can't he ever remember anything _useful_?

He seals his mouth over Brendon's and pinches his nose and breathes in, holding a hand on his chest and shuddering a little when he feels it rise up. "God, okay, good," he whispers, pulling his head away to take in another breath, pressing it all into Brendon's lungs, closing his eyes tight. _Oh god, oh god, please_. He rests his ear next to Brendon's mouth for a second, waiting for Brendon to breathe, for him to sit up and start talking, for him to lick Spencer's ear _just because he can_.

Nothing happens. Spencer starts breathing for him again, watching Brendon's chest rise and fall uselessly, watching as it _stops_ when Spencer has to take a break. Bogart's still hopping around them and barking, and Spencer sort of wants to cry - he doesn't know where his phone is, and Brendon's not breathing, and he probably doesn't have a pulse, and his arms still remember how it felt as Brendon melted away, but they got _home_ , they're _home_ , they should be _safe_ , and he can still taste the last time Brendon kissed him and _Brendon might never kiss him again_ and that's when Spencer starts to cry.

 _God, seriously, seriously, please_. Please, God, _please_ , Spencer whispers, he's never been much for praying but he'll learn, he's learned a lot worse for Brendon before. He shuts his eyes tight and blows another breath into Brendon's mouth, his breath catching and hitching every second.

"Please," Spence whispers, blowing another shaky breath into Brendon's lungs, cracking along all his edges, "please please please." His lips are still against Brendon's, but he can't really pretend that right now he's trying to breathe for him.

Brendon's mouth is cold.

Spencer shudders and chokes on a sob, and then doesn't even try to stop them after that, pressing his cheek to Brendon's wet hair and holding on. His whole body's trembling, shaking with the effort of staying upright. "God," he says, shaking _hard_ , covering Brendon's mouth with his as he just. Loses it. It's not fair, not _fucking fair_. "Love you," he says, swallowing noisily as his eyes stream, holding Brendon up close. "Hey, hey, I love you. I love you. You know I love you."

He's getting Brendon's face wetter.

Spencer shivers and pulls away - he has to wipe Brendon's cheeks dry. His hands are still shaking, but Brendon's hair is in his eyes, and Spencer can't - he has to move it, brushing Brendon's hair off of his face gently, tilting him up so the sun's on his face.

At least he got Brendon home. At least there's - he's still Brendon, and Spencer has something to hold onto. He takes a deep, shuddery breath, and then another one, and cradles Brendon up in his arms.

And then Brendon chokes, and flails, and immediately coughs up gallons and gallons of seawater. Right into Spencer's lap.

It's the happiest fucking moment of Spencer's life.

 

He can't - Spencer's still _crying_ , he's still holding tight to Brendon's body and he's _crying_ , and he can't exactly _stop_ just because Brendon decided to come alive again, so the first thirty seconds that Brendon chokes and flails and pukes up water and gasps for air are really confusing for everyone. Including Bogart.

Spencer's still clutching him tight. He has a feeling he's not going to get better about that.

When he's got his breath back enough to finally gasp _words_ , the first thing Brendon says is "Spence," which makes Spence laugh, even as he's still sort of involuntarily leaking tears, and he reaches down to pull Brendon up closer into him, sort of rocking them both back and forth, overcome.

"Spence, no," Brendon wheezes, patting at his arm until Spencer pulls back enough to look him over, frowning as he reaches down to flick a piece of seaweed off of Brendon's cheek. Brendon's starting to look scared and guilty. "It's the story," Brendon rasps, reaching a wobbly hand up to try to pat his cheek. "I didn't want to - I wanted to stay. I thought that if I tried, it would hurt you." He pauses, actually looking over at the walls, at things other than Spencer. "Where are we?"

Spencer just grins, and tilts him up so he can see the walls. "We got through it," he says, laughing joyfully at Brendon's dumbfounded expression as he stares at the walls and his guitars and _Bogart_ , and then Brendon's grabbing for him, tugging him down into a fierce, desperate kiss.

Spencer makes a surprised noise, but doesn't pull away - in fact, it seems really important, suddenly, that he kiss the _fuck_ out of Brendon, licking into his mouth feverishly, sliding his fingers through damp hair and tilting his head back to get in closer, deeper.

Now that he's got his voice back, Brendon's making the most amazing sounds, these heated little groans in the back of his throat that make the hair on the back of Spencer's neck stand up, make him want to shiver.

"We are never, _ever_ getting on a boat again," Spencer murmurs against his mouth, grinning but not pulling away, as Brendon starts to laugh. " _Ever_."

"And you're never driving anything other than _with your hands_ ," Brendon says, getting frustrated enough to just curl up and push, knocking Spencer back down onto his back and sprawling on top of him. "Hi."

"Hi," Spencer grins, tilting up at the same time Brendon presses down, kissing heatedly. Spencer groans, and Brendon sucks on his lower lip, and somewhere in the background one of their phones rings. Bogart's still barking at them on the couch.

Brendon starts giggling, his lips still sealed to Spencer's, his breath hot against Spencer's cheeks. "Phones," he says, pulling away enough to look sort of gleeful at even the prospect of instant communication.

"iPods," Spencer reminds him, understanding immediately. Brendon gives a delighted shiver, and writhes interestedly against Spencer, giving him a heated look and a quick, dirty kiss.

"Love you," Brendon tells him, hovering over him, leaning in enough to just press their mouths together. "Love you love you love you."

"You always get to say it," Spencer grumbles, rubbing his hand over Brendon's lower back, smirking at the shiver and squirm Brendon gives.

"So say it back."

Spencer pretends to think about it, and then beams. "Love you," he murmurs, tilting his chin up to brush a kiss to each corner of Brendon's mouth, and then the middle. "Love you, love you. Love you."

Brendon shivers, and for a second, he goes still, taking in a couple of deep breaths and giving Spencer the sweetest smile. "You should always say that."

"Okay."

They shift and shove a little bit at a time, Spencer dragging Brendon onto his lap and finally managing to scoot over enough to lean back against the sofa. Brendon gets to pet Bogart, finally, and he rests his cheek on Spencer's shoulder as Bogart licks his fingers.

"Missed this."

"Dog slobber?"

Brendon rolls his eyes. " _Yes_ , how did you know?" he murmurs, tilting his head and then lifting his chin until Spencer ducks down to give him the kiss he's been angling for. _This this this_ , Brendon mouths against Spencer's lips, and Spencer shivers a little and hugs him close.

It's okay, Spencer tells himself, pressing his grin into Brendon's cheek when the kiss ends. Spencer scoops up Bogart and pulls him between them, into their hug, laughing at the way Bogart's whole _body_ wriggles as he tries to lick them both at once. _Family time_ , Brendon singsongs into Spencer's hair, hugging him close.

"Family family family," Brendon hums under his breath, wriggling with almost as much glee as Bogart is.

Spencer grins, and slides an arm around his shoulders, and breathes him in. "True fucking _love_ ," he murmurs, quiet and firm.

 

**_Epilogue_ **

 

" _FUCKING GOD_ , BRENDON," Spencer roars up the stairs, "we're already going to be half an hour late and you're _in the damn ceremony_."

"God, shut up shut up shut _up_ ," Brendon snaps, poking his head out of the bedroom door to throw his shoes at Spencer's head. "Do up the laces on these, I need them."

Spencer grumbles, and then actually looks down at the shoes, and groans. "Damn it - Brendon, you can't wear fucking pink chucks to a wedding," he complains, as he goes over to the nearest chair in the living room and sinks into it, dutifully beginning to lace up the shoes.

"Not a wedding, a commitment ceremony," Brendon tells him airily, clomping down the stairs, putting the finishing touches on his tie. "Eh?" He stops and does a turn on the landing, raising his eyebrows as he waits for Spencer's approval.

Spencer gazes at the glasses, and the bowtie, and the Ironic Sweatervest, and shakes his head. "Stunning," he says very solemnly, tossing the left shoe over to Brendon, gesturing for him to put it on.

"My hero," Brendon tells him, sitting on the edge of Spencer's chair to pull the sneaker on quickly. He reaches for the other one just as Spencer finishes lacing it, and tugs it on as well, hopping up onto his feet and reaching a hand out to help Spencer up.

Spencer glances at the hand and grabs for it, using it to pull Brendon down onto his lap and kiss him thoroughly, til Brendon's stopped humming with nervous energy and is starting to sprawl on Spencer's lap, making interested noises into his mouth.

And then he pulls away, giving Spencer an unamused look, even as he has to come back in for another brief kiss. "We're _going_ to this one."

"I know," Spencer sighs.

"It's Regan and _Shane_ , and we love them."

"I _know_ ," Spencer says again, huffing. "That was only _one time_ , and it's not like a five-year vow renewing ceremony is an actual thing, anyway. Ashlee needs to stop humoring him."

Brendon tsks and nods, fiddling with his sleeves for a second, before he gives up and shrugs his shoulders. "Okay, I'm ready."

Spencer blinks, and tilts his head. "But...you're not wearing pants."

Brendon freezes, and immediately looks down - and then reaches out to punch Spencer, who's started laughing gleefully. "Dude, you _always look_."

"Fuck you," Brendon fumes, punching him again, "fuck you fuck you fuck _you_."

"Yeah, okay," Spencer says, still grinning, rolling his eyes fondly.

Brendon blinks, and stops looking quite so mad. "What, really?"

"...Well, not _right now_."

Brendon grins, looking pleased. "Aw. Hey, just for that, I'm going to tell Regan she doesn't have to throw her bouquet right at you, like I bribed her to."

Spencer frowns and starts towards the door, patting down the pockets of his suit jacket to make sure he has his phone and his wallet and Brendon's phone and Brendon's wallet, and the postcard they _have to send_. "If she has a bouquet she's going to throw, it's totally a fucking wedding."

"It's totally not legal, dude," Brendon argues comfortably, falling into step behind him.

"Then it doesn't matter _who_ catches the bouquet. It's just a bouquet."

"You're saying you don't want to catch the bouquet and be the first one of all your friends to find your Prince Charming, and have lots of sex and babies?" Brendon says, stopping in the doorway. "Spence."

Spence turns around and rolls his eyes, reaching for Brendon and tugging him forward, kissing him lightly. "I'm saying I don't need the bouquet," Spencer tells him, beginning to smirk. "I've already got the happy ending."

"... _Ew_ , you _sap_ ," Brendon says, delighted, as he takes the arm Spencer offers, and closes the door behind them.

 

[ ](http://i46.tinypic.com/29xgl1e.jpg)


End file.
